


I Burn, I Pine, I Perish

by strictlyamess



Category: 10 Things I Hate About You (1999), IT (2017), IT - Stephen King
Genre: 10 things i hate about you/taming of the shrew au, 10/10 stan uris content, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Multi, OH AND NO IT, Slow Burn, Sonia Kaspbrak's A+ Parenting, for both reddie and benverly, guess who's the shrew, some slurs and bad language in later chapters :(
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-07
Updated: 2018-02-27
Packaged: 2019-03-14 20:36:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 29,993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13597893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strictlyamess/pseuds/strictlyamess
Summary: Padua High School, 1999.But mostly I hate the way I don't hate you;Not even close;Not even a little bit;Not even at all.or: when no respectable gays will date Eddie "Shrew" Kaspbrak, other, less respectable gays are forced to come out of the woodwork.(10 Things I Hate About You/Taming of the Shrew AU)





	1. "I Want You To Want Me" (Ben)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't help myself. Enjoy.

**BEN**  
**November 3rd, 1999**

Ben Hanscom, to the surprise of absolutely nobody, was completely, totally, and utterly lost.

It was his first day at Padua High School, the public institution that the children of several of Maine’s small towns (including Ben’s new home, Derry) attended because said towns couldn’t afford to maintain their own high schools. It was also November, which meant that Ben was particularly conspicuous in that everyone else knew exactly where they were going, and he couldn’t even get it together well enough to find the guidance office.

He should be better at this by now. He was no stranger to transferring schools. His mother had been jumping from job to job since before he could remember, chasing higher paychecks and a better life, and that had meant that Ben’s adolescence was sort of a patchwork quilt of new schools and missed experiences. He’d never been in one place for long enough to really have friends, but that was okay. He knew that he’d get there eventually. For now, he was content with his mother, his cat, and his books.

No book in the world, though, could have prepared him for the enormity of Padua High School. This was the biggest school he’d ever attended, and so he reasoned that it was probably not the most embarrassing thing for him to be too turned around to find his counselor.

Still, he had a little time before the bell was set to ring. He could try.

“Um, excuse me,” he said timidly in the direction of a group of students, “I was wondering, um, if you could help…”

One of the students turned around, and Ben immediately realized that he’d made a mistake in choosing this clique to talk to. The boy he was looking at had rodent-like features, greasy, dark hair with frosted tips, and mean eyes. He sneered back at Ben, gaze dropping to the library copy of _Harry Potter_ Ben had clutched to his chest.

“Who the fuck do you think you are, nerd?” The boy snatched Ben’s book out of his hand. “Wizards? That’s the gayest shit I’ve ever seen, and I have Eddie fucking Kaspbrak in my study hall.”

“You should set him up with this moonface,” another, taller boy jeered. “They could have wand practice together.”

“Shut up, Patrick. No one wants to hear about your fag fantasies.” A third boy shoved the second boy into the lockers. “And Henry, make this quick. We don’t want to be caught talking to trash for any longer than we have to.”

“Can I have my book back?” Ben tried, knowing full well that asking wouldn’t work.

Henry (of the rodent face and frosted tips) dangled the book in front of Ben’s face. “Oh, yeah, I’m just gonna _let you leave_ with this dumb book. NOT.” He pulled the book back before Ben could grab it. “Do my homework for the rest of the year and you can have it.”

Oh, hell no. Ben wasn’t going to get himself stuck with a chump punishment on the first day.

“Give me my book,” he insisted, holding out his hand.

“Are you deaf?” Henry said, speaking slowly and loudly.

“I heard what you said. No deal. I want my _book_.” Ben punctuated his demand by ripping the book out of Henry’s hands. Henry stumbled backwards.

The expression on the boys’ faces had turned murderous, and it occurred to Ben that he might have made a huge mistake.

“You’re dead, nerd trash,” Henry roared, reaching for something in his pocket.

“After school, you idiot.” The third boy, who seemed to be the group’s ringleader, threw a hand out in front of Henry. “You can’t get caught with a knife again or you’ll get expelled. Idiot.”

The bell rang, and Ben began to back away.

“You’re dead,” Henry repeated, before following his group down the hall. “Dead.”

_Well,_ Ben thought, _I’ve made worse first impressions._

“Hey, Harry Potter kid!” A voice called out from down the hallway. Ben turned around, half-expecting it to be Henry again with a fresh round of threats.

It wasn’t, thank God. It was a dark-skinned kid in an X-Files t-shirt. Ben eyed him suspiciously.

“Me?” Ben asked carefully.

“Yeah.” The guy caught up with Ben and clapped him on the shoulder. Two other kids were now approaching from the end of the hallway. Ben feared the worst.

“What do you want?” Ben gripped his book tightly. “You can’t have this, it’s from the library.”

“Want?” The dark skinned kid laughed. “No, buddy, we just wanted to tell you that what you just did was freaking awesome.”

“Oh” Ben blinked. “It was?”

“Yes.” One of the other two boys stepped forward. He was dressed in a style that could really only be described as business-casual, and Ben thought he looked kind of funny next to the kid in the X-Files t-shirt, in an odd couple sort of way. “You just stood up to Padua’s biggest and meanest pack of idiot bullies.”

“They’ve been after us for yuh-years,” the third boy chimed in. Ben hadn’t noticed him, really, until he spoke, but once his attention had been called to the boy, Ben didn’t feel like he could focus anywhere else. There was something incredibly compelling about this quiet redhead, somehow. “Huh-how’d you do it?”

Ben shrugged. “I don’t really know. It’s my first day - I guess I just didn’t want them to mess that up.”

The other three exchanged delighted looks.

“First day,” beamed the dark-skinned boy, “that means you’re our tour for first period! Awesome. “Mike Hanlon, at your service.” He stuck out his hand for Ben to shake. Ben took it gratefully.

“Ben Hanscom.”

“Buh-Ben,” the redheaded kid smiled. “Nice. I’m Buh-Bill Denbrough.”

“And I’m Stanley Uris,” finished the business-casual boy, “but you can call me Stan. Pleasure to meet you, Ben Hanscom.”

“We’ll take you up to guidance, if that’s cool,” Mike offered. “It’s kind of impossible to find, otherwise. Mr. Keene keeps himself tucked away at the back of the school so that kids don’t bother him.”

“He’s wuh-writing a p-p-porn novel,” Bill volunteered helpfully. (Ben did not find this information helpful, but he appreciated the thought.)

“Thanks?” Ben said tentatively, looking between the three boys. “I appreciate...I mean, schools usually send me off with some weirdo from AV club, so.”

Mike covered his mouth to stifle a laugh, and Stan shoved his hands into his pockets, embarrassed.

“Not that there’s anything wrong with AV club!” Ben corrected hastily. “But...y’know what I’m saying. Right?”

“We know, yes,” Stan muttered, still a little red around the ears. “It’s one thing to be a geek, and another to talk incessantly about it.”

Ben nodded, relieved that they’d followed his train of thought. Mike was still laughing.

“Oh, man!” Mike wiped his eyes. “This guy’s got your number and he doesn’t even _know_ you, Stan, holy cow…”

“We can’t all be on the football team, Michael,” Stan snapped.

“Let’s guh-go see Keene,” Bill insisted. “We’re l-late.”

Ben followed his new acquaintances up two flights of stairs and down a narrow hallway to the guidance office. He felt strangely comfortable in conversation with them, especially when Mike, a fellow Harry Potter fan, switched the subject to Hogwarts Houses.

He wondered if this was what people with friends felt like every day. If so, he couldn’t wait to have friends.

The 12th grade guidance counselor, Mr. Keene, was waiting for them when they reached his office. He was pretty average in appearance, as stocky, thin-haired middle aged men went, but there was something about his countenance that Ben felt deeply unsettled by. He couldn’t put a finger on exactly what that was, though.

“Hanscom?” Keene asked, pushing his glasses up his nose to read the schedule in his hand.

Ben nodded, surreptitiously wiping his sweaty hands on the bottom of his plain red t-shirt.

“This is yours.” He handed Ben the schedule. “I see you’ve already met the three stooges; they’ll tell you where to go.”

Mike and Bill grinned from where they stood in the doorway. Stan scowled, adjusting the collar of his button-down shirt.

“That’s basically all I’ve got for you,” Mr. Keene continued. “Looks like you’ve been to a lot of schools, so you know the drill. Same little asswipe shit-for-brains everywhere.”

Ben swallowed. “Uh.”

“Now, if you boys would be so kind,” Mr. Keene dismissed them with a wave of his hand, “I have a novel to write.”

“We’ll leave you to it,” promised Stan, dragging Ben out by the arm.

Once they were out in the hallway, Mike and Bill collapsed into giggles.

“Cluh-classic Keene,” Bill sighed, putting his hand over his heart.

“You know, when you guys said ‘porn novel’ before, I was a little lost, but I get it now, definitely.” said Ben, looking over his schedule.

“Dude, let me see.” Mike held out a hand, and Ben passed over the piece of paper. “You’ve got English first. Stan, you’re in there, right? With Mr. King?”

“Yes.” Stan looked less than enthused. “With Mr. King, and Tom Rogan, and Patrick Hocksetter, and--”

“Tuh-touchy little Eddie Kuh-Kaspbrak, and _fuh-fuh-fucking Richie Tozier_.” Bill rolled his eyes. “We know, Stan. You only compluh-ain about it every d-day.”

“No Bowers though,” Mike asked quickly, “right?”

“No.” Stan huffed. “He’s in remedial English. Good thing, too.” He turned to Ben, fixing him with a serious look. “Rogan’s probably too self-absorbed to remember what you did this morning, and Hocksetter’s mind is an incomprehensible void, but Bowers will never forget, and will probably kill you as soon as he gets you alone.”

Oh. They were talking about the bullies from before. “Sounds like a really good time.”

“Anyway, you’ve got Spanish second period. I don’t think any of us are in that one,” Mike continued.

“Fuh-French,” Bill said, gesturing between himself and Stan.

“And I take Latin,” Mike said, “so Stan’ll walk you there, and then you’ll be on your own for a bit.”

“It’ll be luh-lunch after that, so juh-just follow the crowd,” Bill added.

“Are you ready to go?” Stan was looking at Ben again, and Ben couldn’t help but straighten up under his gaze.

“Sure.” Ben turned to Mike and Bill. “I’ll see you guys at lunch?”

“You know it.” Mike smiled, giving Ben a thumbs up. Bill nodded along.

“Great, wonderful, awesome, okay, let’s go.” Stan said exasperatedly. “I want to get this over with.”

Mike and Bill departed for their own classes, and Ben was left to follow Stan, who walked _inhumanly_ fast.

“The library’s over here.” Stan gestured towards a large set of double-doors as he passed them. “AV meets there, and so do the Future MBAs...although I am not on speaking terms with them at the moment.”

“What happened?” asked Ben.

Stan scrunched up his face, obviously still upset. “They found out I owned Backstreet Boys apparel.”

Ben thought of all the New Kids on the Block stuff he had at home, and felt a sense of solidarity with Stan. “That’s it?”

“They’re a vindictive bunch,” Stan muttered. “I didn’t even buy the damn visor for myself. Mike got it for me as a joke. A _joke_ ,” he repeated, checking in with Ben to make sure he got the point.

Ben decided against bringing New Kids on the Block into the conversation.

“I’m sorry,” he said instead, “they sound like they suck.”

Stan pressed his lips together into a thin line. “They do suck. And they’ll pay for exiling me, certainly. I have plans.”

They walked quietly together for a moment. Ben wondered, idly, if Stan had ever killed a man.

“This is the cafeteria.” Stan finally broke the silence, and Ben let out a breath he didn’t know he had been holding.

He didn’t hear anything else Stan said about the cafeteria, though, because at that moment, the most beautiful girl in the entire world walked by.

Ben had never really paid much attention to girls at his other high schools, partially because he knew that he wasn’t going to be around for very long, and partially because he’d never met a girl that was more interesting to him than a book. He knew intuitively that this girl was going to be the exception. She had ferocious red hair, freckles that wound in constellation patterns across her face and down her back, and the kind of green eyes that Ben imagined J.K. Rowling was thinking about when she described Harry Potter.

He couldn’t decide whether or not he wanted her to look at him. On the one hand, she was the most incredible person he’d ever laid eyes on in his life. On...well, on the same hand, he was absolutely terrified of her.

He’d stopped walking somewhere along the line, too caught up in the girl to notice that he was standing still in the middle of the hallway like an idiot. Stan noticed, though, and was not amused. He smacked Ben in the arm, effectively ending his reverie.

“No. No way.” Stan shook his head. “Terrible idea.”

“Who is she?” Ben asked faintly.

“Beverly Marsh,” Stan replied. “Sophomore. She’s a goddess among mortals, obviously, and like a goddess, she has very little interest in us lowly normal kids. You’re better off forgetting her.”

“How am I supposed to forget about her?” Ben wrung his hands. “Her hair…”

“Look, buddy.” Stan stared flatly at him. “Even if you figured out how to make her pay attention to you, you couldn’t take her out. It’s popular knowledge that she doesn’t date.”

“Why not?”

“Eddie Kaspbrak.”

“Who?”

“We’re here,” Stan said, pulling open a door at the end of the hallway and ushering Ben in to meet Mr. King.

Mr. King was a grey-haired, no-nonsense sort of fellow with a very stern face. He stopped speaking when Stan and Ben walked in, and looked over at them disinterestedly.

“New student, I presume,” he said in a bored drawl. “Mr. Uris, kindly do the honors.”

“This is Ben Hanscom,” Stan said, gesturing to Ben. A chorus of ‘hi, Ben’ rang through the room. “Be nice to him. Thanks.”

“Take the desks at the far side of the classroom, you two,” said Mr. King, “and let’s get back to Hemingway, shall we?”

Ben took his specified seat and looked around. A gangly, gawky kid near Stan was throwing paper clips in Stan’s direction.

“Stanthony!” The kid whispered, comically loud. “Stan! The! Man! Introduce me to the new kid!”

“No,” said Stan in a heavy monotone.

Unfortunately for Stan, this didn’t deter the kid; rather, it prompted him to instead lick his hand and reach out towards Stan’s desk. Stan recoiled immediately.

“Disgusting,” he hissed. The gawky boy giggled. “Ben, this is Richie Tozier. Don’t waste your time with him.”

“What’d I do to deserve that intro?” Richie squawked indignantly. Stan buried his face in his hands.

“Mr. Tozier,” called Mr. King.

“The office, yup.” Richie winked as he slid out of his seat. “Catch ya later, Ben Handsome.”

“Thanks?” Ben replied, unsure of whether or not he was supposed to feel flattered.

“Let’s proceed without distraction, please.” Mr. King sounded annoyed. “I’d like to hear thoughts on the relationship between Frederic and Katherine. Mr. Rogan, did we read the book this time?”

The ringleader of the group of bullies from earlier looked up with a lazy smile. Ben quietly moved to slide his _Harry Potter_ book into his bag.

“I was proud of my boy Freddy for getting some--” Tom began, but was almost immediately cut off.

“Alas, we did not, in fact, read the book this time.” Mr. King massaged his temples. “Someone else, then.”

“Well, it’s obvious that Hemingway hates women.” A small, sweet looking boy near the front of the classroom crossed his arms. Ben noticed with some interest that the boy was wearing a fanny pack.

“We don’t have to do this today, Mr. Kaspbrak.” Mr. King looked, for all intents and purposes, like a man ready to quit his job immediately, but that was the furthest thing from Ben’s mind in that moment.

Hadn’t Stan said the name Kaspbrak before…?

“I think we do, though,” continued Fanny Pack Kaspbrak. “Katherine’s whole mission is to get pregnant? Really? And then when she can’t deliver the baby, she just...dies? Like, okay, _Ernest_ , is that really all that you think that women are good for -”

“That is all that women are good for, though,” said Tom Rogan suddenly, sitting up and staring at Fanny Pack. “You’d know that, too, if you weren’t the world’s faggiest little bitch.”

“Office. Both of you. Now.” Mr. King crossed to the door and pushed it open for them.

“What did I do?” Fanny Pack spluttered.

“Just go, Kaspbrak.” Mr. King sighed. Ben turned to look at Stan, who shrugged.

“That’s Eddie for you.”

Eddie.

Eddie Kaspbrak.

The reason Beverly Marsh didn’t date.

Ben put his head down on the desk, and hoped to God he wouldn’t have to buy a fanny pack to impress this girl.

\----

When lunch rolled around, Ben felt a little sick with nerves. Given the size of the school, it was unlikely that he’d run into either Henry Bowers or Beverly Marsh in the cafeteria, but he was equally nervous about both prospects.

Fortunately, Mike found him first.

“Ben!” Mike pushed through the throng of students. “Como se dice, dude, how was Spanish?”

“Good enough for me to confidently be able to say that you’re terrible at Spanish,” said Ben, a little numb from being jostled by the stream of students jockeying towards the cafeteria.

“Yeah, that’s true.” Mike shrugged amiably. “Any familiar faces?”

“Not really. No you, no Stan, no Bill...I guess the teacher did call for that Richie kid, but he didn’t show. I think he was still in the office.”

“He skips sometimes, too.” Mike looked back at Ben. “You buy your lunch?”

“Bring,” said Ben. “My mom likes to make it. Makes her feel useful.”

“That’s pretty cool of her - and a good thing, too. Padua food is crap.” Mike brought Ben around a large group of people and through the cafeteria doors Stan had pointed out earlier. “We all bring our lunches, too. I assume you’re hanging out?”

Ben suddenly felt warm. “With you, Bill, and Stan? That’s okay?”

“You bet, buddy.” Smiling, Mike led him to a table near the back of the room. “Here he is, boys!”

“You muh-made it!” Bill cheered. “How’s it been?”

Ben sat down, pulling his bag lunch out of his backpack, and thought back over the last two periods.

“Well, English was...interesting.”

“I told you that class was terrible.” Stan rolled his eyes.

“And then in Spanish, we…” but there was no way Ben was finishing that sentence, because he’d just seen Beverly Marsh across the room, carrying a tray of food and looking like a literal angel.

“Earth to Ben, come in, Ben,” called Mike. “Who’re you looking at?”

“Oh, right, he’s fallen in love with Beverly Marsh.” Stan shrugged and took a small bite of his sandwich.

Mike and Bill exchanged an astonished look.

“All right, all right!” Mike clapped him on the back, nodding appreciatively. “Dream big, buddy.”

“She’s really nuh-nice,” offered Bill, smiling kindly. “We were uh-in the school pluh-uh-ay together once.”

“Oh yeah! You kissed her! Nicely managed, my man.” Mike and Bill high-fived messily over the table.

“We’re just going to ignore her whole Eddie pact, then?” asked Stan, rolling his eyes.

“Oh, shit, I forgot.” Mike’s smile disappeared. “Man, she’s gonna be single for _life_.”

“Eddie pact?” Ben asked, trying not to sound desperate.

“It’s not huh-huge, really.” Bill shrugged, sipping a Capri Sun. “Eddie went through some kind of bad buh-buh-breakup a year or suh-so ago, and swore off d-dating. Buh-Bev’s his best f-f-friend, so she swore off d-dating too.”

“Until he dates.” Mike corrected. “Beverly will start dating again when Eddie starts dating again.”

“So all we have to do is set up Eddie Kaspbrak?” Ben grinned. “I think I can manage that.”

“Okay, no. Two things.” Stan folded his arms. “One, she still doesn’t know you exist. Two, you’re not going to find a date for Eddie.”

“Why not? I bet some of the girls think he’s cute,” said Ben, looking at Beverly again.

“Yeah, bud...he doesn’t swing for that team,” said Mike, scratching his head sheepishly, “so that limits your pool a lil’ bit. And then there’s the fact that he’s not known for being, you know, super nice.”

“The nicest name he gets called is Shrew,” Stan said bluntly. “No respectable gay is going to date the Shrew.”

Beverly had sat down at a table near the front of the room. The table’s only other occupant was Eddie Kaspbrak. They were conversing about something.

“What subjects does Beverly take?” Ben changed the subject.

“She’s in Fuh-French class,” offered Bill. “She’s not very guh-good.”

Ben’s face lit up. “That’s perfect!”

Bill, Stan, and Mike all squinted back at him, confused.

“So in order to be the girl of Ben Hanscom’s dreams,” Stan clarified, “you have to have red hair, bad taste in friends, and speak French poorly.”

“No, no.” Ben waved his hands in front of him. “No. I’ll tutor her in French. That can be my in.”

“I don’t think that’s as good of a plan as you think it is,” Mike warned, opening his water bottle.

“Why not?” Ben asked, indignant.

“You don’t take French.”

“I can learn.” Ben balled up his paper bag and tossed it towards the trashcan. Instead of going in, it hit one of the kids passing by. The kid turned around, fists clenched - and of course it was Henry Bowers, of all the hundreds of kids at Padua High, of fucking course.

“Run,” advised Bill, and they all grabbed their stuff and high-tailed it across the cafeteria, with a howling Henry in tow.

They finally lost him over by the football stadium bleachers.

“Why did we take you on again? You clearly have a death wish,” wheezed Stan, leaning up against one of the metal supports.

“Did someone say death wish?” A head of curly hair popped up from where it had been resting on the grass. Ben recognized Richie Tozier’s freckled face and stupid glasses, and stifled a laugh - so Richie _had_ been skipping, after all. “Stan the Man!”

“Can I not have one moment of peace?” Stan groaned, banging his head against the support. “Can I not just be left alone?”

“The universe huh-hates you, Stan,” Bill agreed solemnly.

“It hates all of us today. Especially you, Hanscom, and your impossible French tutoring scheme.” Mike plopped down on the grass by Richie, and everyone else followed suit.

“French tutoring?” Richie asked, “like...french kissing, tutoring?”

“There’s not an ounce of romance in your entire body, is there?” Stan asked, folding his arms over his eyes.

“I don't know about ounces,” Richie grinned, “but I have a couple of good inches, and I’ve been saving them for your mom.”

“I thought you were gay, Tozier,” Mike remarked, throwing a handful of grass in Richie’s direction.

“I mean, a little. Like Freddie Mercury.” Richie kept smiling, nonplussed. “I like both.”

A lightbulb went off in Ben’s head. He scooted over to Stan and started whispering.

“Remember earlier, when you said no respectable gay would date the Shrew?”

“Yes.” Stan rolled his eyes. “I stand by it.”

“What about gays that might be...less respectable?”

It took Stan a minute, but the lightbulb eventually went off for him, too. He looked at Ben, and then at Richie, and then down at his own hands, clearly thinking it over. 

When Stan looked back up, Ben expected him to shoot the idea down immediately...but instead, he smiled, huge and terrible.

“Suddenly, I’m invested in your stupid crush, Ben Hanscom. That would be fucking _hilarious_. Let’s make it happen.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These chapters will vary in perspective - so this one is a Ben POV, and the next one will be Eddie, and so on and so forth.
> 
> I'll also assign a rating to it somewhere down the line, but for now I just...don't know! You'll get a heads up if it's gonna get sexy. It's not gonna get violent.
> 
> I hope you have as much fun reading this as I'm having writing it !


	2. "Shout" (Eddie)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Mike Hanlon was right,” Eddie said, finally, “that was weird as fuck.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> content warning for Georgie's lack of chill

**EDDIE**  
**November 5th, 1999**  
**(two days after Ben Hanscom's arrival)**

“I swear to God, Bev, I’m gonna scream if I’m stuck in that English class for one more minute.” Eddie Kaspbrak sat up on his bed and shifted the phone receiver from one ear to the other, trying not to get tangled in the cord. “And I love English! But. The whole thing is just...gross.”

“Sounds pretty gnarly,” Bev agreed, popping her gum on the other side of the phone. “You looking for homework help for that class?”

Eddie smiled. _‘Homework help’_ was code for _‘meeting at the local bookstore to browse and complain’_. Eddie’s mother only recently let him have a phone for his room, and even then, she continued to listen in on pretty much all of his conversations from the phone downstairs, so the only safe way for Eddie to share any details of his life was for him to get out of the house.

“Honestly, yeah,” Eddie said, checking himself in the mirror to make sure he was presentable enough to go out in public. “When can you meet?”

“Fifteen minutes?”

“Awesome.” He combed his fingers through his bangs, trying to get them to lay flatter. “See you soon.”

“Peace out, girl scout,” said Bev, and hung up. 

Eddie put his phone back on the hook, grabbed his windbreaker and fanny pack, and headed downstairs. “Mom! I’m going to Bev’s to do English homework. I’ll be back for dinner.”

He heard the tell-tale click of the phone being set down followed by the din of the television as Oprah was switched back on. Sonia Kaspbrak was nothing if not predictable.

“Are you sure you should be going out with Beverly Marsh again this week, Eddie-Bear?” Sonia waddled out of the living room into the hallway, looking concerned. “It’ll be the third time in four days, and I... _worry_ about you with her.”

“Just because you think Elfrida’s a tramp doesn’t mean that Bev does any of that stuff, Mom.” Eddie slid on his Sketchers and avoided meeting his mother’s gaze. “She’s really smart.”

“I don’t want her to take advantage of you, sweetheart,” Sonia said, crossing her arms.

“Mom.” Eddie stopped moving and faced Sonia. “You know that’s not going to be a problem, and you know why.”

Sonia’s face twisted into an ugly grimace. “Don’t be absurd, _Edward_. The right girl will come along.”

“She absolutely will not.” Oprah laughed loudly on the television in the background at something her guest, Ellen DeGeneres, had said. “And for the record, Ellen’s gay, too.”

“She’s just a tomboy!” Sonia defended, momentarily distracted from her goal of keeping Eddie in the house. Eddie used the few seconds he had to his advantage, and ducked swiftly past Sonia and out the door.

“Bye, Mom!”

“Eddie, come back! Edward!!” Sonia cried, but it was too late. Eddie was home-free.

(He’d pay for “cruelly manipulating his mother” when he came back or dinner, but a couple of hours of freedom was worth the grounding he’d get, especially after the week he’d had.)

Derry’s little town bookstore was on Main Street, about ten minutes’ walk from Eddie’s house. Bev was unfortunately a little farther away - Derry was a farming town, so while it was small in population, it was stupidly big in area - and so had to take her bike when she and Eddie met up. 

The bike was already there when Eddie turned the corner onto Main Street.

“What took you so long?” Bev was leaning on a lamppost, pointedly ignoring the stares she was getting from the local male townsfolk. “I was starting to wonder if Sonia had admitted you to the ER again.”

“Not today, but probably soon,” Eddie sighed, reaching out a hand to Bev. She used it to pull herself upright, and together they started walking towards the bookstore. “If I don’t come home with a girlfriend in the next couple of months, she might even skip the hospital and drive me straight down to that psych ward in Portland.”

“Fuckin’ bitch.” Bev rolled her eyes, turning her gum over in her mouth with a loud _squish_ that made Eddie squirm. “It’s 1999, Sonia. People are gay.”

“She doesn’t even believe that _Ellen_ is gay,” Eddie laughed, reaching the shop door and grabbing the handle. “Or Elton John.”

“I bet if you showed her a picture of David Bowie, she’d combust,” Bev snorted, walking through the door after Eddie. “But anyway. English class.”

“Right.” Eddie rolled his eyes and headed for the ‘New Arrivals’ section, with Bev hot on his heels. “I got kicked out again on Monday, and now I have detention all next week. I didn’t even do anything, Bev. Sonia’s gonna flip.”

“What happened?” Bev grabbed for a Nicholas Sparks book with trees on the front cover and started flipping through it.

“I was complaining about Hemingway, because he’s a sexist scrub, and then Tom fucking Rogan called me a faggot, and now I have detention and he doesn’t. How blatantly homophobic is Padua gonna be, huh?” 

Bev didn’t respond. Eddie grabbed the Nicholas Sparks book from her hands.

“Were you listening to me?”

“Yeah. Hemingway, Tom Rogan, detention.” She chewed her lip, looking like she was debating whether or not to tell Eddie something.

“Then what, Bev?” Eddie slid the Sparks book back on the shelf gingerly, making a face at the heterosexual couple gazing longingly into each other’s eyes on the back cover.

“Do you think we could get Tom Rogan to stop saying stuff like that and like...just be a normal dude?” she asked, not meeting Eddie’s gaze.

Eddie shuddered. “As _if_. That kid’s gonna be a sexist, homophobic idiot until the day he dies.”

Bev still wasn’t looking at him. He frowned, a nasty feeling beginning to brew in his gut.

“Why?”

Bev shrugged, listless. “I don’t know, I just thought…”

_Oh, Jesus Christ, no._

“Beverly Marsh, if you’re saying what I think you’re saying right now…”

They were interrupted by a small, raincoat-clad boy barrelling down one of the aisles, tripping, and falling directly into Eddie. Eddie tried to catch him, but that only made it worse, and they both crashed to the ground.

“Suh-sorry!” A voice called from near the counter. Bill Denbrough raced over and picked the raincoat kid up and off of Eddie. “Georgie just got a little cuh-carried away. He loves b-b-books.”

“It’s okay.” Eddie shakily pushed himself up into a sitting position. “Me too, Georgie.”

Georgie giggled, and Bill pushed a hand through his hair embarrassedly.

“Thanks. You’re Eddie, ruh-right?”

“And you’re Bill,” Eddie said. “I saw you in the play with Bev last year. Nice job, by the way.”

Bev and Bill smiled shyly at each other. “It’s easy when you have a good scuh-scene p-p-partner.”

“It really is,” Bev beamed. “It’s good to see you, Bill. I’m sad we don’t have any classes together this year. I miss doing French flashcards before rehearsal.”

“Oh yeah.” Bill jumped like he’d just remembered something really important, and Georgie sighed impatiently, sensing that he was about to be subject to more conversation. “How’s t-two level Fuh-French going?”

“It’s probably not as hard as the four level French you’re in, but I still suck at it,” Bev grumbled.

“Do you need huh-help?” Bill asked, a little too quickly. 

Eddie narrowed his eyes. Was Bill Denbrough trying to make a move on his friend...?

“Are you offering?” Bev asked, raising an eyebrow.

“No! Well, I mean….no. You wouldn’t wuh-want it from me. I’m... _comment est-ce qu’on dit_...bad,” Bill said, turning a little red.

”I think the word you’re looking for is _mal_.” Stan Uris stepped out from behind a bookcase, causing Bill to seize up in surprise. This was apparently the funniest thing on Earth to Georgie, who began giggling like a maniac as soon as he saw the terrified expression on Bill’s face.

“Georgie, that’s not f-funny,” Bill hissed. “Stan, give a guy some wuh-warning next time, juh-juh-jeez.”

“I probably won’t,” said Stan, leaning down to adjust Georgie’s raincoat. “Anyway, what Bill is trying to say is that we’ve both started seeing a French tutor, and it’s really helping, so if you need help, we can give you his information.”

Eddie blinked. Stan was one of the smartest kids in the class. Why was he seeing a French tutor?

“That’s exactly what I me-meant, thank you,” said Bill, smiling gratefully at Stan.

“Oh, okay.” Bev straightened up, thinking it over. “I mean, yeah, I guess. I can’t fail again, my aunt will have a cow. Can he meet on Friday at lunch?”

“Please don’t leave me at lunch,” Eddie muttered under his breath, hoping that Bev would, by some miracle, hear him.

“Or after school?” she continued, and Eddie exhaled in relief.

“We’ll luh-let you know,” Bill said, exchanging a weird, cryptic look with Stan.

“You losers ready to get the heck outta here?” Mike Hanlon came to join Bill, Stan, and Georgie. He was holding a huge bag full of books. Eddie interestedly took note of his Green Lantern shirt - he’d never seen Mike off of the football field, and so he’d assumed that his interests were more jock-ish. He was kind of glad he’d been wrong about that. “Stan, next time could you skip the ornithological journal? It weighs like, eighty pounds.” 

“ _Journal of Ornithology Volume 71 Part 1_ doesn’t come out until next year,” said Stan, rolling his eyes. “Plenty of time for you to build your muscles up.”

“I literally play football, dude, my muscles are fine--”

“Muh-maybe we could all just cah-carry our own, next time?” Bill offered, clearly trying to make peace.

Georgie watched the spectacle with a knowing smile. “They’re boyfriends,” he informed Bev and Eddie cheerfully. 

Mike and Bill froze, mouths open, and Stan sighed, tugging at one of his neatly arranged curls. “Excuse my language, Bill, but Georgie - what the fuck.”

“So thuh-that’s where he’s learned that word from,” Bill said, closing his eyes and shaking his head. “Dammit, Stuh-Stan.”

“Boyfriends,” Georgie repeated, happily bouncing on the soles of his feet. 

_Oh,_ Eddie thought, _that kind of explains the sketchy behavior, doesn’t it?_

“You and Stan?” Bev asked Bill, curious.

“And Stan and Mike, and Mike and Bill,” Georgie added, beaming.

“Well, that’s our cue.” Mike, who had turned a weird shade of maroon, ushered the other three people in his party towards the door. “Weird seeing you two here. Bye.”

“He means guh-good,” Bill called, hurrying out the door after Mike, “good seeing you two h-here.”

“No he doesn’t.” Stan took his time, taking Georgie by the hand and stepping neatly after his friends (boyfriends?!). “He means weird. I’ll see you in the English class from hell, Eddie.”

Bev and Eddie stared after them for a solid minute.

“Mike Hanlon was right,” Eddie said, finally, “that was weird as fuck.”

“They’ve always been…” Bev paused, looking for the right words, “...like that. Weird, but like, good weird. I think it’s cute.”

“I think it’s a waste.” Eddie went back to perusing the new arrivals. “If I’d known they were gay sooner, maybe I could have gotten in on that.”

Bev laughed and smacked his arm. “I thought love was a lie invented by manufacturers to sell Valentine’s Day cards.”

“It is,” Eddie said. “They’re nice enough, though.”

“Speaking of love,” Bev said carefully, turning away from the shelf to face Eddie. “I, um. I have a question.”

Eddie squeezed his eyes shut. He had a feeling he knew what she was going to ask, and he wasn’t ready to hear it. “Yes?”

“If I were to, say, spend some time with Tom Rogan…”

“No, Bev.” Eddie pulled out a copy of _The Whole Woman_ by Germaine Greer and pretended to examine it. “We had an agreement.”

“Eddie.” Bev pulled his arm to make him look at her. “Just because you don’t like him--”

“He’s _mean_ ,” Eddie said hotly, knuckles white where they gripped the book. “He’s stupid and mean and a coward, and I don’t want you to go out with him. We had an _agreement_.”

Bev stared at him for a long moment, disappointment evident in her face. “That’s really unfair, and I think you’re jealous.”

“I’m not jealous!” Eddie gaped at her incredulously. “I’m trying to look out for you!”

“I don’t need it,” Bev snapped. “I can take care of myself, and I’ll prove it. I’m gonna say yes the next time he asks me out.”

“The next time?!” Eddie ran his hands through his hair in frustration. His bangs were probably sticking up again, now, but he wasn’t really in the frame of mind to care. “He already asked?”

“Yes, and I said no because I wanted to give you a heads up!” Bev clenched and unclenched her fists. “I didn’t - you’re not allowed to _forbid_ me -”

“We have an agreement, Bev,” Eddie said for the third time, holding up his hands. “A _‘no men until we’re both undergrads at Sarah Lawrence’_ agreement. That’s all.”

Bev groaned. “Yeah. Yeah, I know. The agreement. God...just get in to Sarah Lawrence or get a boyfriend already so I can run a little wild.”

“Get a boyfriend, huh?” A tall, freckled kid leaned out of one of the aisles. Eddie recognized him as Richie Tozier from his terrible English class, and immediately wrinkled his nose. He didn’t think Richie had ever lasted a whole class without either getting kicked out or removing himself to go smoke under the bleachers. “Sorry, couldn’t help but listen in. Richie, by the way.” Richie offered a hand out to Bev. “Charmed.”

“Nice to meet you, Richie.” Bev shook Richie’s hand. “You wanna help me get this tiny ball of feminist rage a boyfriend?”

“I don’t want a boyfriend,” Eddie insisted, glaring at both of them, “and I’m not tiny.”

“Sure you’re not, sweet thing.” Richie waggled his eyebrows at him, and then turned back to Bev. “I actually came over to offer a suggestion for the boyfriend thing.”

“I’d love to hear it.” Bev crossed her arms and looked up at Richie, intrigued. 

Eddie threw his arms up into the air, accidentally letting go of _The Whole Woman_ in the process. It flew across the bookstore, prompting several dirty looks from other patrons.

“I’m still here, you two,” he all but shouted, waving his arms around, “and I should hear from Sarah Lawrence in--”

“You’ll like him.” Richie kept talking, blatantly ignoring Eddie’s protests. “He’s pretty great. Tall, suave, handsome...outrageously huge dick…”

“Oh my fucking….Jesus Christ….” Eddie trailed off, running his hands angrily through his hair.

“Ooh, now we’re talking.” Bev laughed, eyes mischievous. “And who is this mystery homosexual you’ve so elegantly described?”

“Me,” Richie grinned, fixing Eddie with what he probably thought was a winning smile.

It wasn’t. Eddie had never been less charmed in his life.

“You?! I wouldn’t go out with you if you were the last person on Earth,” Eddie hissed, letting all of the anger he’d built over the course of the last couple of days pour out into his words.

Richie didn’t flinch. He didn’t even look upset. In fact, he seemed kind of...excited?

“We’ll see about that,” he said, and Eddie couldn’t help but feel like something terrible had just begun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The French ("comment est-ce qu’on dit", or "how do you say") is courtesy of the wonderful @Char_ismatic :)
> 
> y'all they released so many parts of Journal of Ornithology Volume 70 in 1999 I cannot believe
> 
> come chat with me about Eddie's windbreaker/Sketchers combo in the comments, or:  
> strictlyamess.tumblr.com (personal)  
> or  
> skeletonscribbles.tumblr.com


	3. Atomic Dog (Mike)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Mike had _no idea_ what this had to do with him. He didn’t really even know how he’d ended up here - he had just wanted to eat his lunch in peace, damn it."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> some quality Mike Hanlon content, because he is truly the kindest, bravest, and best of us
> 
> CONTENT WARNING: major, MAJOR slurs in this chapter - racist, homophobic, sexist, anti-Semetic...the works. Rogan's gang is basically comprised of Neo-Nazis :/

**MIKE**  
**November 4, 1999**  
**(one day after Ben Hanscom’s arrival, and one day before Eddie Kaspbrak’s trip to the bookstore)**

Mike Hanlon had watched his football teammates make dumb decisions on and off the field for long enough that he could pretty confidently say that he knew a good idea from a bad one.

This was a very, very, _very_ bad idea.

“And you think I should be the one to do this _why?_ ” Mike crossed his arms, staring down at Ben and Bill. They had apparently gotten out of class early...or Mike had gotten out late, but either way, they had beaten him to the lunch table.

“Because we’re already sitting do--” Ben started, but was quickly cut off by Bill elbowing him in the stomach.

“Because you’re the stuh-strongest and b-b-bravest of all of us,” Bill said instead, smiling and batting his eyelashes a little bit.

Mike wished he were less susceptible to that, but alas - it was one of his many, many weaknesses when it came to Bill.

“Right,” Mike agreed, “that’s true, but this isn’t my problem. It’s Ben’s.”

“Henry Bowers wants to remove my head from my body,” Ben pointed out.

“Ugh,” Mike groaned, looking longingly at Bill’s lunch, “I get why we’ve gotta do this - Richie’s probably gonna need a cash incentive to put the moves on Princess Kaspbrak, and we’re all broke as hell - but this really sucks, Hanscom.”

“What’s this?” Stan arrived at the table, looking flushed. He had gym class right before lunch on odd days, and Mike couldn’t resist reaching out and giving one of his curls a tug - the post-workout look suited him. Stan rewarded Mike’s action with a withering glare.

“Mike’s going to go ask Tom Rogan to pay off Richie Tozier to take out Eddie Kaspbrak,” Ben explained with a mouth full of sandwich.

“Because Tom luh-likes Bev, too,” Bill clarified, prompting a groan from Ben. Mike whistled pityingly - the universe was obviously not on Ben Hanscom’s side. “And he’s luh-luh-loaded.” 

Stan tutted, shaking his head. “Well, Bill, it looks like we’re going to be widows.”

“We’re not married _yet_.” Mike rolled his eyes. “I’m probably gonna die, though, so you’re at least right about that.”

“We’ll ruh-remember you.” Bill blew a kiss.

Ben looked entirely lost. “Guys, is there something I’m missing?”

“Not at all,” Stan said neatly, sitting down and pulling out his lunch. “Just usual, normal things.”

Mike caught Stan’s drift - it would be pretty funny to see how long it took Ben to notice their relationship. “Guys being guys, dudes being dudes, you know?”

Bill giggled obliviously. “You mean guh-gays being g--”

“I’m gonna go now,” Mike announced before Bill finished his sentence. (Fortunately, it didn’t look like Ben had caught on.) “Play _Thriller_ at my funeral.”

“Good luh-uck!” Bill called, and Stan gave a curt wave.

Taking a deep breath, Mike turned and began walking towards the tables by the doors, where Rogan and his cronies usually sat. He had no idea how he was going to propose this idea without sounding like a total idiot. Shit.

When he arrived at the dreaded table, he was immediately met with glares and sneers.

“A visit from the ghetto,” grinned Tom Rogan, flicking back a piece of his perfectly coiffed hair. “What can I do for you, Hanlon?”

“Hi Tom, Patrick, Victor...Henry.” Mike greeted around the table. He swallowed hard when he got to Henry, who was looking at him like he wanted to eat him.

“Howdy, Uncle Tom.” Henry bared his gross, yellow teeth. “You’ve been hanging around that new kid Hanscom, I hear.”

“Never heard of him,” Mike lied. “Tom, can I talk to you?”

“Have a seat,” Tom offered, gesturing to the open seat next to him. Mike stared at the vacant chair in terror. “I insist.”

“I’ll be quick.” Mike declined, forcing himself to smile. “I had an idea that I thought you’d dig.”

“Trap,” mumbled Patrick, looking at Mike with eyes that were almost completely out of focus.

“Stop spewing your crazy, Hocksetter. I wanna hear what Will Smith here has to say.” Tom leaned back in his seat. “Spit it out, Hanlon.”

“I heard you were interested in Beverly Marsh,” Mike said, watching Tom balance on the back two legs of his chair and quietly willing him to fall backwards.

“You heard right,” Tom grinned, “and I’d be hittin’ that, too, if not for her fairy-bitch friend Kaspbrak and their stupid promise.”

“I told him it didn’t matter,” Henry muttered, taking the butter knife off of his lunch tray and running a finger down the shallow spikes. “Promises are for women and queers. Who cares about Kaspbrak. Take her anyway--”

“Enough, Henry.” Tom held up a hand. “We play by the rules. It’s more of a challenge that way.”

“Anyway,” Mike cut in, wanting to get himself out of this conversation as soon as he possibly could, “I think I know someone crazy enough to take him out. You know, so that Bev could go out, too.”

Tom wrinkled his nose. “Even the queerest cocksuckers in this school aren’t crazy enough to take out the fucking Shrew.” He shuddered for effect. “God, imagine having to _listen_ to him for that long. That shrill, girly voice going on and on about germs and like, women in the workplace or whatever...ugh.”

“I think you could get Richie Tozier to do it,” offered Mike.

Silence fell over the table. The boys looked between one another, considering. (Well, Tom and quiet Victor Criss were considering. Patrick’s eyes were glazed over, and Henry was stabbing angrily at the stalks of broccoli on his plate.)

Finally, Tom looked back at Mike. “I didn’t know he sucked dick.”

“He’s full of surprises.” Mike took in a deep breath, preparing his sales pitch. “He’s also kind of an idiot. Well, not like, an idiot, but...the kind of dude that’ll do anything for ten dollars, you know?”

“Ten dollars.” Tom stared off thoughtfully. “I could make that work. You really think he’d buy in?”

Mike shrugged. “Couldn’t hurt to ask.”

“What do _you_ get from all of this?” Victor Criss finally spoke up. Tom nodded at him.

“Yeah, Hanlon. What _does_ this have to do with you?” Everyone’s eyes were fixed on Mike, now. 

Mike had _no idea_ what this had to do with him. He didn’t really even know how he’d ended up here - he had just wanted to eat his lunch in peace, damn it.

“Uh.” He jammed his hands in his pockets. “Interesting you should ask, ‘cause, um.”

And then it hit him.

“If Rich Tozier can get Eddie Kaspbrak to go out with him so that you can date Bev, then you guys have to leave me, Bill Denbrough, Stan Uris, and Ben Hanscom - _especially_ Ben Hanscom - alone.”

Henry’s expression went from zero to murder over the course of two seconds. “Like FUCK we will, nigg--.”

Mike cut him off, livid. “I’ve put up with you calling me a lot of shit, Bowers, but finish saying that word and I’ll end you. _End you_.”

“That a promise?” Henry pushed out of his chair and crowded Mike’s space. Mike almost gagged when the first waft of Henry’s disgusting breath reached his nostrils. “I thought you said you didn’t know that piece of trash Hanscom. Guess you’re a liar, too, huh--”

“Sit down, dipshit,” Tom called. Henry glowered for another second, and then reluctantly backed down, fists still clenched. Mike took deep breaths, willing his anger to subside.

“I don’t care about you, the stuttering freak, the kike...I don’t even care about Hanscom,” Tom said, leaning forward. Anger flared dangerously in Mike's chest - _no one_ got away with referring to his boyfriends like that - but he willed it back down for the sake of both the mission and his own well-being. “I do care about Beverly Marsh. I’ll take your deal, Hanlon - if Tozier agrees.”

Henry punched the table furiously. Mike exhaled heavily in relief.

“Great,” Mike said, giving Tom a thumbs-up and quickly turning to leave. “Thanks. Let me know what he says -”

“Where are you going?” Tom asked, eyes narrowing. “We have to find Tozier.”

Mike’s stomach chose that moment to growl obnoxiously.

“Are you sure I have to be there for that…?” Mike asked weakly.

“You sure fucking do.” Tom stood up. Victor, Patrick, and Henry got up too, but Tom quickly waved them back down. “Not you, you idiots. How many times have you broken Tozier’s stupid clown glasses or stolen his ratty gym clothes? He’ll run as soon as he sees you.”

“He’d run from you, too,” Henry pointed out.

“Not if I have Hanlon with me,” Tom countered, looking at Mike. “So. Let’s get this show on the road, jock star.”

“He’s by the bleachers,” Mike sighed, shuffling towards the cafeteria doors. “I’ll take you there.”

There were many forms of torture being implemented in various ways at Padua, but walking in silence with Tom Rogan was worse than any class punishment that Mike had ever received.

Tom broke the silence as they moved from the pavement of the parking lot to the grass of the area around the football field. “So. Football.”

“Yep,” Mike agreed, “football.”

They fell into silence again.

By the time they got to the bleachers, Mike was so uncomfortable he could have screamed.

“Yo, Tozier,” he called instead, pushing against the desperation he knew was starting to edge up in his voice. “Where you at?”

“Who wants to know?” Richie’s voice echoed from a couple of rows of stands down. He wasn’t looking at them - he was busy trying to get a cigarette lit. The wind was making it tricky for him to get his lighter started.

“Hello, Tozier,” said Tom. Richie immediately froze and looked up, cigarette falling to the ground at his feet. 

“Tommy Rogan,” Richie greeted, nervously shoving his lighter back in his pocket, “to what do I owe the, uh, pleasure?”

“Business proposition,” Tom said, crossing his arms. Richie raised his eyebrows and looked over to Mike, and Mike responded with an uncomfortable shrug. He was really hoping not to have to do this part.

“What’s your business?” Richie asked carefully.

“I hear you’re a man that doesn’t back down from a challenge.” Tom looked Richie over, taking in his jumbled, almost disheveled appearance with an amount of disdain.

“Yeah, you have some first hand experience with that, don’t you?” Richie said lightly, mouth twisting up in a sardonic smile. “Remember in seventh grade math, when you told your friend Belch Huggins to beat me with my own backpack if I made another joke about your mom?”

Tom’s expression hardened. “Yeah, actually. I seem to remember you going ahead and _making another joke about my mom_.”

Richie shrugged, smile seemingly locked in place. “Well, there you go. I didn’t back down from the challenge.”

“Right.” Tom rolled his eyes. “I guess. Well. I have a new challenge.”

“I’ve already been beaten with my own backpack once, thanks.” Richie pulled out his lighter again. “Find some other schmuck to bait with that this time.”

“I’ll pay you,” Tom offered sharply, pulling his wallet out of the back pocket of his jeans. 

Richie stared at Tom’s wallet. “You’re going to ask me to kill someone, aren’t you?”

Tom rolled his eyes. “No, dipshit. You know Eddie Kaspbrak?”

“Shortstack? From English?” Richie looked at Mike again, trying to suss out what exactly Tom was asking him. “Porcelain doll kinda face?”

“Yeah. The bitchy little fairy.” Tom looked at his feet. “I want you to take him out.”

“You said you didn’t want me to kill anyone.”

Mike almost laughed at that, but then looked at Tom’s red face and thought better of it.

“On a date, Tozier! On a date!” Tom snapped, fuming.

“Oh.” Richie considered the proposal. “Why?”

“I wanna have sex with Beverly Marsh,” Tom said bluntly.

Richie squinted. “You know, I’m not making the connection.”

“Bev doesn’t date because Eddie doesn’t date. If Eddie dates, Bev gets to date,” Mike explained quickly before Tom could lose his temper.

“That’s dumb,” Richie said, shaking his head. “I don’t know Beverly Marsh, but based on this information I’m really not sure what the big deal is here--”

“Will you do it?” Tom asked. It was obvious that he was working really hard not to yell.

“For how much?” Richie countered, adjusting his glasses and moving his eyes back down to Tom’s wallet.

Tom looked to see how much cash he was carrying. “Twenty bucks?”

Richie laughed. “No fuckin’ way, amigo. I’m gonna need at least fifty.”

Mike’s eyes went wide. Haggling was a bold move.

“And why the fuck should I pay you _fifty dollars_ to take out the fucking Shrew?” Tom growled.

Richie shrugged. “I mean, you know. Dates are expensive. Over ten bucks per ticket, plus popcorn, candy...condoms, maybe, if things escalate, and the magnum ones I have to buy are way more expensive than the regular shit. Price you pay for having an outrageously huge wang.”

Tom rolled his eyes, seething. “Ugh, shut up, idiot. If I give you fifty dollars, you have to deliver. _Have to_.”

“No sweat, señor,” Richie promised, one corner of his mouth tugging upward as he broke into a shitty Spanish accent. “Jeeehst call me Cahhhsanovahhh.”

“Good fucking luck, then,” Tom said irritatedly, tossing a wad of bills in Richie’s direction. “Try to make it out in one piece; Kaspbrak’s a nasty little piece of work.”

For once, Mike had to agree with Tom Rogan. Richie had his work cut out for him.

“I like ‘em feisty,” Richie grinned, losing the accent and bending over to pick up his money. “Have fun fucking whatsername Marsh, Rogan.”

“I will,” Tom sneered, turning on his heel and stomping back towards the cafeteria. “And Hanlon, tell your freak friends that they’re safe for now. _For now_.”

Mike stayed for a minute, staring at Richie. Richie looked back at him knowingly.

“Your friends, huh?”

Mike considered his options for a long moment, and came to the quick conclusion that Richie deserved the whole truth if he was going to be caught up in this shitstorm of crazy.

“We’re trying to get Ben Hanscom a date with Bev,” Mike explained slowly, “not Tom, Tom sucks, you know that. But. We figured you’d be crazy enough to agree to the Eddie thing, and we also figured you’d want money for it, but we don’t have money, so. Here we are.”

“‘We’ as in you, Ben Handsome, Big Bill, and Stan the Man?” Richie asked, counting his money before sliding it into his front jeans pocket.

“Yeah.” Mike scratched the back of his head. “I get it if you wanna opt out, knowing that.”

“Are you kidding?” Richie smiled, winking back at Mike. “I feel wa-ha-heyyyy better about all this knowing that you’re doin’ it for Benny Boy. I’m also pretty psyched that Rogan’s not getting anything out of the deal. Makes this cash prize even sweeter.”

“Oh, good.” Mike smiled, moving forward to clap Richie on the arm. “Good.”

“So, uh,” Richie laughed shortly, “any tips for asking out the...what did Tom call him? Shrew?”

“None at all, buddy.” Mike said, shaking his head, “none at all.”

The bell rang. Mike and Richie both looked back towards the school to see kids clearing their lunch trays.

 _Lunch trays_. He hadn’t gotten to eat his _lunch_.

“God damn it,” he yelled towards the field, walking hurriedly back to the building in the hopes that he could choke down his 3D Doritos before his computer science teacher started making them do things.

God damn it.

Next time Ben Hanscom wanted something done during lunch, he was going to have to do it himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tom Rogan's a meninist, pass it on!
> 
> For those wondering, Belch was in lunch detention. The empty seat that Tom offered to Mike was his.
> 
> also - thank you SO MUCH for your kudos and comments! I'm psyched that you guys seem to be as into this idea as I am. If you wanna drop me a line about my _'90's Mike only eats 3D Doritos because he thinks they taste better'_ headcanon (or anything else, really, I'm not picky) come talk to me in the comments, or at:
> 
> strictlyamess.tumblr.com (main)  
> skeletonscribbles.tumblr.com (writing)


	4. "New World" (Bill)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Jesus.” Richie buried his face in his hands, fingers twitching for a cigarette or maybe just in general. “What the fuck am I doing wrong? Why does he hate me so much?”
> 
> Stan squinted at him, taking a calculated bite of an apple. “Have you met yourself?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> finally, some real, honest to god Reddie Content (TM)

**BILL**  
**DECEMBER 6, 1999**  
**(One month and three days after Ben Hanscom’s arrival)**

Bill Denbrough had always kind of been attracted to other people’s drama, in a weird sort of way. He supposed it went hand in hand with his hobbies. The writer in him was always filing things away, saving people and situations as characters and plots for future use.

He had been excited to meet Ben Hanscom; excited to hear about and invest in his plan to woo Beverly Marsh and take down Tom Rogan. It was the exact kind of romantic situation that Bill had tried to map out again and again on paper, only to come up short. 

He could write it now, probably. Actually, he could write way more than anyone would ever be interested in reading, now, because there had been a frustrating lack of progress over the course of the last month.

Bill had some ideas about how to move things along. He just didn’t know if any of them would work in real life the way they had on the page.

“When Tom Rogan lets Henry Bowers kill me,” Richie Tozier said, sliding gracelessly into a seat at the lunch table and removing Bill from his own thoughts, “which of my organs do you think they’ll sell on the black market first?”

Richie, to Stan’s utter dismay, had taken to sitting with them at lunch after he was drawn into the Hanscom saga. He’d claimed he “quite enjoyed the comp’ny, govnah” when questioned about it (by Stan, who was hoping he’d take the hint and leave), but Bill suspected he actually just didn’t want to be alone for as long as Tom Rogan’s eyes were going to be on him. Either way, he definitely made lunchtime more...colorful.

“No luck with Eddie?” Stan asked, not even bothering to sound surprised.

“Of course not,” Richie groaned. “In fact, I think he actively tried to run me over in the parking lot today. He drives a minivan, right?”

“It’s in keeping with his personality,” nodded Ben.

“Jesus.” Richie buried his face in his hands, fingers twitching for a cigarette or maybe just in general. “What the fuck am I doing wrong? Why does he hate me so much?”

Stan squinted at him, taking a calculated bite of an apple. “Have you met yourself?”

“Stan the Comedi-an,” Richie jeered, “I’m serious, for once. What am I gonna do? If I don’t figure shit out with Kaspbrak soon, Rogan and his idiots are going to rip my limbs off.”

“Have you tried not making jokes about his mom?” Mike asked, eyebrows raised.

“Admittedly, I didn’t think of that until it was too late,” Richie sighed wistfully, “but I can’t even make up for it now. He won’t even stay in the same room with me unless he has to for class. I’ve been having to _attend English_. Boys, I am SUFFERING.”

“Let me talk to Buh-Bev,” Bill said, a plan quickly forming in his mind. “Or Ben can at tuh-tutoring. I'd be willing to buh-bet we can get you a nice, safe d-date, Rich.”

Richie scoffed. “What’s Bev gonna be able to do? And what the fuck qualifies as a ‘safe date’ for Eddie ‘Bane of My Existence’ Kaspbrak?”

“Bev can arrange for you two to ah-accidentally end up alone t-together,” Bill explained, smiling wanly, “and then you can tuh-take him to the p-p-p-party. Safe date.”

The other four boys at the table stared blankly back at him. “Party?”

Bill shrugged. “I thought we could th-throw one. Or convince suh-someone else to.”

Mike shook his head. “Man, Bill, I love you, but that’s far fetched even by your space-cadet standards. Not even football’s got any parties planned soon. There’s only that weird Future MBA shindig this Saturday that Dorsey Corcoran is trying to push, and uh.” He glanced at Stan warily. “That’s off the table.”

Richie snorted. “Future MBA party? What the fuck do you even do at a future MBA - I mean, no offense, Businessman Stan, but if I wanted to drink fancy grape juice and talk about the weather, I’d take Benny’s mom out on a date--”

“For that, Richie,” Ben said, trying and failing to sound stern, “I’m not giving you my Gushers today.”

Richie’s eyes widened. “Tyrant.”

“Actually,” Stan said, a terrible glint in his eyes, “that might not be such a bad idea.”

“Which,” Mike asked, “Richie taking Ben’s mom on a date, or Ben giving his Gushers to me instead of Richie?”

“Okay, that was never even on the table--”

“The party,” Stan clarified matter-of-factly.

Ben looked at Stan with an expression that suggested that he was straddling the line between terror and curiosity. “Not a bad idea for Richie to take Eddie to Dorsey Corcoran’s parade of cheese plates? Again, no offense, Stan, but I’m pretty sure that’s not Eddie’s idea of a good time.”

Stan shook his head, smiling to himself. “No, no. It’ll be a rager.”

Richie stared at him. “Do you really like grape juice that much, Staniel?”

Bill came to a sudden and terrifying realization. “Oh, God, this is your ruh-revenge scheme, isn’t it, Stan?”

“Don’t sound so scandalized, Bill. It’s just a couple hundred kids and a keg.” Stan chuckled, low and evil. “Does anyone have access to a copy machine? I wanna hand out flyers: _‘Free Booze at Dorsey’s on Saturday Night’_.”

“You’re the most terrifying man I’ve ever met,” Ben said weakly.

“Thank you,” Stan responded gracefully. “I already have my outfit planned, too. It includes my Backstreet Boys visor.”

Mike laughed excitedly. “Oh, hell yes, babe, that’s perfect. I’ll ask the football team about hooking us up with tunes and a keg. They’ll be into it, I think.”

Ben squinted. “Babe?”

Bill clapped a hand over his mouth to keep himself from laughing. Stan and Mike had clued him in to Operation Don’t Tell Ben Anything about a week ago, and since then, it had been almost doubly hard to not give their relationship away. “It’s the nuh-nineties, Ben. _Babe_ ’s the new _b-b-bro_.”

“Huh.” Ben looked a little alarmed. He turned to Mike experimentally. “Babe.”

The look on Stan’s face almost made Bill wish he had a camera.

“Maybe just...don’t say it like that,” Mike said, shaking with restrained laughter.

“Okay, so we have the party,” Richie cut in, bouncing his leg, “but how am I supposed to talk to Eds without him strangling me with his fanny pack? Huh?”

“Oh! I actually had a suggestion for that.” Ben beamed. “So, I told Bev about the plan during last week’s tutoring session.”

The other four boys squinted incredulously back at him.

“Why the hell would you do that?” Stan crossed his arms, and Ben swallowed hard. “What if she tells Eddie?”

“I didn’t mean to, honestly - I just...I tried to ask her to dinner, and then she called me cute, and things got confused and there was French involved and it just…” Ben was bright red. Bill decided to take pity on him.

“It’s okay, Ben, as luh-long as she’s p-playing along.”

“She is,” confirmed Ben. “She’s been dying for Eddie to get a boyfriend, actually, and she likes you, Richie.”

Richie perked up immediately. “She does?”

“Yeah, she thinks you’re, and I quote,” Ben made exaggerated air quotes, “funny as FUCK.”

Richie whooped. “I AM funny as fuck!”

“Anyway,” Ben continued, “she told me that she and Eddie usually go to the Bob Gray Coffeehouse down off of Neibolt Street on Thursdays for their slam poetry night, and that they were planning to go tonight, too. If Richie just happened to show up there, well…”

Richie paled. “I appreciate the thought, Haystack, but they’re not gonna be super happy to see me down at Bob Gray after the incident.”

“Incident?” Stan inquired, at the same time as Ben asked, “Haystack?”

“Better that you don’t know,” Richie shook his head at Stan, dragging his finger across his neck in a cutting motion, “and your beard looks like a haystack, so...Haystack.”

Ben touched his beard, frowning. “It does not.”

“I’ll guh-go with you, Rich,” Bill offered. “They knuh-know me well enough there that I can puh-probably get you in with minimal t-t-trouble.”

“That’ll give Bev someone to duck out with, too,” Mike pointed out, smiling. “Brilliant as always, Bill.”

Bill preened. “Thanks, huh-handsome.”

Ben put his face in his hands. “How am I supposed to know who’s gay and who’s straight in this high school when everyone just flirts with everyone else-”

“What time d’you wanna go, Billiam?” asked Richie, who was focusing rather intently across the cafeteria on the spoon moving between Eddie Kaspbrak's yogurt and his mouth.

“When does the puh-poetry start, Ben?” Bill asked, deferring to the expert.

“Six-thirty,” Ben said. “Do you want me to come, too?”

Bill shook his head. “Richie and I can huh-handle it. Stay home and b-brush up on your French - one of us huh-has to get guh-guh-good at it.”

“Meet you on the corner of Neibolt and Main at six-fifteen,” Richie said, reaching over the table and swiping Ben’s Gushers as the bell rang.

“I wanted those, asshat!” yelled Mike, but Richie was already halfway down the hallway.

“I’ll bring some for you tomorrow,” Ben promised, patting Mike on the back and leading him away.

Stan stayed seated for a moment, smiling to himself.

“You okay, suh-sweetheart?” asked Bill, touching Stan lightly on the shoulder.

“I can’t believe this outside relationship drama is working in my favor,” Stan said, voice warm. “It’s making me wonder if we shouldn’t have just bitten the bullet and talked to other people a long time ago.”

Bill laughed. “Who are you and wh-what have you done with Stanley Uris?”

Stan shrugged, still smiling. “I could have ripped Dorsey Corcoran to shreds years ago if I’d had more reinforcements.”

“Thuh-there he is,” Bill sighed, smiling in spite of himself. “Luh-let’s go to Euro. Muh-maybe an hour and a half of duh-dead kings will sour you b-back up.”

“You always know just what to say,” Stan sighed, collecting his things and following Bill to their history class.

\----

Bill wasn’t expecting Richie to be on time, but apparently he had underestimated his new friend. Richie was relatively dressed up (as much as a red, long-sleeved, non-Hawaiian shirt, a denim jacket, a mood ring, and a pair of non-ripped jeans could be considered dressed up) and ready to go at 6:15 on the dot.

He was also uncharacteristically nervous.

“Big Bill,” he called when Bill approached, jamming his hands in the pockets of his jeans. “You sure you can pull enough strings to get me in here? They’re not gonna be happy you’re even trying, honestly-”

“Seriously, whuh-what the fuck did you do?” Bill asked, shaking his head fondly.

Richie’s ears reddened. “You know the guy who owns this place?”

Bill nodded. “Buh-Bob Gray himself. Yep.”

“Well, I…” Richie trailed off, looking for the words he wanted, “there was a rumor that went around about me maybe having had sex with his daughter, Alexandra.”

“Oh, yeah, I think I huh-heard that, actually.” Bill gave a short laugh. “Did you?”

The blush expanded from Richie’s ears to his neck. “No.”

“Oh.” Bill was beginning to think that there was a lot more to Richie than he let on. “Well, either wuh-way, I’ll get you in. Gray’s an old f-f-friend of my dad’s.”

“Right.” Richie tugged on the collar of his shirt. “Cool.”

As it was, the people working the door for the event didn’t even recognize Richie, and he was able to breeze in without any trouble at all. Bill led him to a row near the back, and they took their seats, craning their necks for Eddie and Bev.

“Have you ever buh-been to something like t-t-this?” Bill asked Richie, curious.

Richie crossed his arms and slunk down in his seat. “Aren’t you the writer, Big Bill? This is more your scene, yeah?”

Bill looked down at Richie in concern. “Are you okay, Rich? You seem….tuh-tense.”

Richie sighed hard. “I just don’t know why he hates me, Bill.”

Bill sat back, surprised. “Eddie?”

“Yeah.” Richie fiddled with the sleeves of his shirt. “I don’t get it. I’ve pulled out all the fucking stops - been the most impressive version of myself I could possibly be, and he just...hates. So yeah, I’m tense. I’m just...not ready to be shit on again, you know?”

“Have you t-tried being the muh-most _authentic_ version of you?” Bill asked softly.

Richie barked out a laugh. “Literally no one likes that guy, Bill, trust me.”

Bill shrugged. “Eddie might. And that could suh-save you from being kuh-kuh-killed by Henry Bowers, you know?”

“Right.” Richie tugged on a strand of his own hair. “Bowers.’

As the lights dimmed a little bit to signal the start of the performance, Eddie and Bev snuck in and took aisle seats a few rows in front of Richie and Bill. Eddie whispered excitedly to Bev, and she tossed her head back in jubilant laughter at whatever it was that he said.

Bill wasn’t watching either of them, though. He was watching Richie watch Eddie, which was much more interesting, because Richie’s expression had gone entirely taut - like he was afraid and intrigued, all at once.

There was a word for the combination of emotions that Richie was projecting, Bill thought, but he just couldn’t think of it right now. Maybe it would come to him later.

“Richie?” Bill whispered, not really sure what he was asking.

Richie tore his eyes from Eddie to look at Bill, expression unreadable behind his thick glasses. “It’s poetry,” he explained without explaining, and something clenched in Bill’s chest.

Richie’s voice was apparently loud enough to be heard even when he was basically whispering, because Eddie whipped around immediately after Richie finished his sentence. The two looked at each other for a long, tense moment before Eddie pushed furiously out of his seat and headed for the door.

Richie looked back at Bill, exasperated and _hurt_.

“What are you wuh-waiting for?” Bill asked, incredulous. “Go!” He shoved Richie lightly towards the aisle.

“What’s the point?” Richie hissed. “He hates me.”

‘He hates who you thuh-think he wants you to b-be,” Bill corrected. “He doesn’t knuh-know you. Go.”

Richie thought for a moment, and then let his shoulders sag in quiet defeat.

“You’re gonna pay all my therapy bills after this, Billiam, because if my self esteem ends up completely destroyed at the hands of Eddie Kaspbrak, and it will, it’s gonna be your fault,” he grumbled, standing up, grabbing his jacket, and walking brashly out after Eddie.

Bill smiled and settled in, ready to enjoy some poetry in peace.

He had approximately thirty seconds of peace before Bev grabbed him by the arm and dragged him out, too.

“Leave them alone, Bev,” Bill warned, allowing himself to be pulled into the outer hallway of Bob Gray’s in spite of his words.

“For the sake of my love life, this needs to go well,” she responded curtly, “so we’re gonna make it go well. Okay?”

Bill gave her his best sad eyes. “I wuh-wanted to watch the p-p-poetry…”

“Tough luck, Denbrough.” Richie and Eddie’s voices were audible from outside, and Bev pressed her ear against the door, gesturing for Bill to join her. He did, albeit reluctantly.

“...just need you to explain to me what it is you find so repulsive about me,” Richie was all but yelling. “Like, I know I’m ugly, so just tell me that’s what it is instead of quoting fucking...queer theory at me or whatever and then stomping away--”

“I don’t find you repulsive,” Eddie snapped back, sounding a little taken aback. “I just don’t appreciate being made fun of!”

Eddie’s words hung in the air for a minute. Bill felt extraordinarily conscious of his own breathing.

“You were making fun of me...right?” Eddie asked weakly. “Pretty much everyone is, these days, so.”

“Eddie.” Richie sounded sad. “Do you remember...did you go to the poetry reading that Audra Phillips did last spring, down at the Aladdin?”

Bill remembered that. He’d been super jealous of everyone that had gotten to go - Audra was one of his favorite poets of all time.

“Don’t answer that, actually,” Richie continued, “I know you did, I saw you. You were wearing that pink and purple patterned sweater you have. Anyway. There was a line from her poem _Movie Set in England_ that I’ve been thinking about, and you...you remind me of that, I guess. _The tempestuous sea; sharp and sultry, brash and beautiful blue._ ”

Bill inhaled sharply. Either Richie was the best bullshitter on planet Earth, or something pretty big was going on here.

“Oh.” Eddie seemed to be at a loss. “I didn’t know you liked that stuff.”

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me,” Richie said, soft and low. “And a lot of stuff that you think you know about me that isn’t true.”

Eddie paused for a moment. “Like how Bob Gray won’t let you into his coffeehouse because you slept with his daughter?”

“Like that,” Richie agreed.

There was new tension in the silence. Bill looked down at Bev to see if she felt it, too, but she was so focused on the conversation happening outside that Bill couldn’t really tell.

“Let me take you to Dorsey Corcoran’s party this Saturday,” Richie insisted. “I’ll pick you up at eight, and we can go.”

“Dorsey Corcoran?” Eddie asked, sounding almost amused. “Are you a Future MBA?”

“The football team’s turning it into a kegger,” Richie explained.

“Ah. That’s mean, but also kind of funny, I guess.” Bill could hear Eddie shuffling his feet back and forth, back and forth.

“I’ll pick you up at eight,” Richie repeated, edging on desperate.

“Not from his mother’s house,” Bev whispered, “she’ll murder him…”

“Not from my mother’s house,” Eddie echoed, “she’ll murder me. But I can meet you there.”

“Cool,” Richie breathed, and Bill knew he was smiling. “Cool.”

 _Attraction,_ Bill’s brain provided him...in Stan’s voice, for some reason. _The word you were looking for to describe how Richie was feeling before was attraction._

Ah.

Bill Denbrough was beginning to understand _exactly_ how much more there was to Richie than he let on...and he was _living_ for it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the poetry is mine, which is why it's bad.
> 
> come talk Richie being a Gushers fiend with me in the comments or at:
> 
> strictlyamess.tumblr.com (main)  
> skeletonscribbles.tumblr.com (writing)


	5. "Saturday Night" (Stan)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Was Richie having feelings? Or, more - was Richie having feelings that Stan actually cared about?
> 
> It must just be the party atmosphere, Stan decided. Non-party Stan would never endorse any of this."

**STAN**   
**DECEMBER 8, 1999**   
**2 days after the Bob Gray Debacle**

Stanley Uris was, historically, not a party person.

Contrary to popular belief, it wasn’t like he hadn’t tried. Mike had taken him to a grand total of two football parties. The first time, he had walked in, recognized how overdressed he was, and promptly walked out. The second time, he’d showed up in one of Bill’s flannel shirts, feeling out of place and uncomfortable as hell, and in an attempt to alleviate his discomfort, had gotten so drunk that he’d called Bill in tears and begged him to bring him home.

So, Stan had evidence, definitely, that parties weren’t really his thing, and most of the time, when given the opportunity, he chose to stay at home with his math homework rather than partake in his classmates’ drunken foolishness.

But.

He was committed - COMMITTED - to enjoying Dorsey Corcoran’s party to the goddamn fullest, because there was only one thing he loved more than his boyfriends, and that was revenge.

“How do I look?” Stan asked, adjusting his Backstreet Boys visor in the mirror.

Mike gave him a once-over from where he stood in the doorway of Stan’s bedroom. “I mean, gay. But...really fucking good. Like, _damn_ , sweetheart. Losing the suspenders was the right choice.”

Stan smoothed out imaginary wrinkles on his pink button-down. “I think so, too.”

“We ready?” Bill joined Mike in the doorway. “What, Stan, no puh-pocket protector?”

“Shut the fuck up,” Stan said, without any real heat. “I’m ready when you’re ready.”

“Then we’re ready,” Bill grinned.

“Wait,” Mike said suddenly, crossing quickly to his dresser and reaching for a yellow plastic Kodak camera. “I still have film in this disposable camera. I want pictures.”

“No,” groaned Stan, at the same time that Bill cheered “Yes!!”

“Just one for now,” Mike promised. “I’ll have someone take one of all three of us at the party.”

Stan rolled his eyes, but managed to crack a smile for the photo when Bill leaned in to rest his head on Stan’s shoulder.

“All right. Let’s go now,” demanded Stan. “I have to celebrate my victory.”

“B-brat,” Bill muttered affectionately, pressing a kiss into his hair.

“Don’t,” Stan said, touching his head, “you’ll mess up the visor.”

“I’m leaving in five minutes, with or without you losers,” said Mike, walking out of the room and down the stairs.

“Coming!” they called, and the three of them all raced out to the car, giddy with anticipation.

\----

To Stan’s delight, they could hear the bass bumping from Dorsey’s house from almost five blocks away.

“I’m gonna park soon,” Mike warned, “I don’t want my car anywhere near that house when the cops come.”

“The cops might not get cuh-cu-called,” Bill suggested cheekily.

They let the joke hang in the air for a minute before dissolving into giggles.

“Good one, Bill,” Mike snorted, pulling off to the side of the road and stopping the car. “Let’s go NOT have a cop run-in.”

“Stan’ll probably cuh-call them himself,” Bill said sweetly, opening his car door and pushing out into the night.

“It’s cheating if anyone but the neighbors calls 911,” Stan scowled, following Bill out and away.

They all stopped and checked in with one another when they reached the Corcorans’ front doorstep.

“How much time are we planning on spending in here?” Mike asked, looking specifically at Stan.

“An hour or two?” Stan shrugged and shoved his gloves into his jacket pockets. “As long as it takes to rub it in.”

“And huh-help Richie and Ben,” added Bill, adjusting his knit hat. Stan rolled his eyes - he’d almost forgotten about the romance bullshit they’d somehow gotten themselves tangled up in.

“Well, Stan, you’re gonna look for Dorsey, right?” Mike asked, “and Bill, I know you wanna eavesdrop on whatever drama’s going on, so after you two are done with all of that, come get me and we’ll take that picture. I’ll be with the football team, probably somewhere near the keg.”

“Deal,” Stan and Bill agreed. Mike grinned, and opened the door.

The inside of Dorsey’s house was a sight straight from Stan’s nightmares. There was almost no space to move; there were sweaty teenagers strewn over every inch of the Corcorans’ stately manor. The staircase to the right was littered with cardboard 24 packs of various shitty beers, and when Stan picked up his feet to move further into the house, the floor was so sticky that he had to just about peel his sneakers off of the hardwood.

“I could cry,” Stan said, turning to Bill with a huge smile. “Mike, take a picture of _this_.”

“I’m not encouraging your weird revenge fetish,” Mike chuckled, sliding an arm around Stan’s shoulder and squeezing his upper arm. “I do encourage you to have a drink, though. Come find me in the kitchen after you annihilate Dorsey.”

“Trying to get me drunk already, Hanlon?” Stan laughed and waved Mike away. “Have fun.”

“I’m gonna go fuh-find Ben,” Bill said, scanning the crowd.

“Be my guest,” said Stan, not bothering to take of his jacket as he headed towards what he assumed was the study. (It had a desk and some elaborate bookcases.) “I’ve got some gloating to do.”

Unfortunately, it was looking like it was going to take a while to get to the gloating. Finding Dorsey was going to be next to impossible. The Corcoran house was packed, and Stan was having a hard time finding _anybody_ that he knew, let alone the person that he wanted to see. He saw Greta Bowie from his Homeroom dry-heaving over an expensive urn, and Patrick Hocksetter pushing through the books on one of the bookshelves in a strange, hypnotic frenzy, but otherwise…

Oh, no, wait. Beverly Marsh and Tom Rogan were curled up together on the Corcorans’ desk chair, deep in conversation. 

Damn it.  
It was allowed, given that Eddie was also (theoretically, Stan hadn’t actually seen them yet) there with somebody, but...still. Damn it.

“I’ve been trying to book a modeling campaign,” Tom was saying, clutching a piece of photo paper in his hands, “and so I wanted your opinion. I have these pictures - do I look like too much of a fairy in this one? I was going for something more...more…..”

“Fairy?” Bev asked, scanning Tom’s face for some kind of sign that he was kidding.

“Yeah, I don’t wanna look too gay. I’m not trying to model women’s clothes, you know? But I thought this one was maybe, like--”

“Unfortunate,” Bev said, eyes dark.

“Oh.” Tom looked at the photo he was holding out. “Damn. I was gonna say gnarly. You know, kinda like Mark McGrath.”

“I wasn’t talking about the pictures, idiot,” Bev muttered, pushing off of Tom’s lap. He grabbed her wrist.

“Where are you going? You can’t leave. I’m your fuckin’ ride, Marsh.”

“I’ll walk.” Bev’s voice was shaky as she yanked her arm out from Tom’s grip. “Enjoy your lame party, Rogan.”

Stan watched her leave, and felt a weight settle in his stomach. Fuck.  
She was too upset to be leaving by herself. He was going to have to go after her.

“I’ll find you later, Corcoran,” Stan whispered to himself, and began the tedious process of pushing through the crowd to retrieve Beverly.

Before he could reach her, though, she stumbled into somebody else.

“Ben, thank God,” she said, reaching out and grabbing for Ben Hanscom’s arm. (It didn’t look like Bill had located Ben yet, as Ben had been standing alone, clutching a red Solo cup.) “Is it just me, or does this party suck all of a sudden?”

Ben, to Stan (and Bev)’s surprise, yanked his arm away. He was very obviously a couple of beers too deep, and was looking at Bev with deep hurt in his eyes.

“I don’t know, Bev,” he said thickly, “you looked like you were having fun.”

Shit. He’d seen her with Rogan.

Bev gaped up at him in shock. “I was gonna ask if you could give me a ride home, actually…”

Ben studied her face. “You didn’t actually want to get dinner with me, did you?”

Stan groaned. He’d forgotten that Ben had actually attempted to ask her out, and he was really tired of being reminded about outside relationship drama that he didn’t care about.

Bev shook her head, trying to digest what he was saying. “I….I don’t….”

“Just say no, next time,” Ben muttered, trying to move away. “Don’t be selfish.”

Bev moved to cut him off. “Ben, what the fuck.”

“Just because you’re beautiful, Bev….” Ben trailed off, eyes glassy with tears, “that doesn’t mean you can treat people like they don’t matter.”

He pushed a little harder, and managed to get past her. She stayed there for a moment, lost in the haze of her own shock.

“Go after him, you idiot,” Stan shouted across the crowd.

Bev didn’t look in Stan’s direction, but she must have heard him somehow, because she took off after Ben with a jolt, calling out his name frantically.

Okay, good. Well, not good, but...better, at least. _Now,_ Stan thought, _back to the original mission._

He decided to check out what was happening upstairs, figuring that if he was the one having his house trashed by drunk dumbasses, he would have chosen to take refuge in his room. Gingerly, he started up the stairs, moving half-finished beer bottles with his feet in his attempt to clear a path to get himself to the second level of the house…

....only to narrowly avoid being pushed back down the steps by an intoxicated Eddie Kaspbrak in a black turtleneck sweater.

“Eds, don’t do anything stupid,” and of COURSE Richie was hot on Eddie’s heels, “I dunno how much you’ve had, but--”

“We’re teens,” Eddie slurred, swaying at the bottom of the stairs, “we’re s’posed to be making the most of our youth...or whatever the fuck it was you were saying. I can do what I want.” To make his point, he elbowed his way over to the living room coffee table and jumped up on to it, swinging his hips around to the beat of the Ricky Martin song that was playing. “Live a little, Rich!”

Richie stared openly, looking extra stupid in his long sleeved tie-dye shirt with his mouth hanging way open. “Stan, are you seeing this?”

“I’m really trying not to,” Stan responded, actively attempting to look anywhere but at the lewd display Eddie was putting on. “Have you seen Dorsey?”

“Dorsey?” Richie, on the other hand, couldn’t tear his gaze away from Eddie’s dance moves - until Carla Bordeaux, an enthusiastic (and drunk) little junior girl, tripped over a beer can and stumbled directly into his lanky arms, effectively waking him up.

Carla looked up, dazzled. “Kiss me,” she asked Richie, smiling stupidly.

“Kiss him instead,” Richie responded quickly, pushing Carla into a different guy’s lap and vaulting down the stairs after Eddie. “Eddie! Hey, as fun as this is for me, really, you gotta--.”

“Whaddya know? The Shrew’s a _slut_.” A voice rang out from the study, and Stan pushed his hands into his hair nervously. Tom Rogan was back, and he did _not_ look happy.

Eddie stopped dancing and turned to look Tom directly in the eyes. 

“Fuck,” he said, raising his hand slowly to point at Tom, “you.”

Having then said his piece, Eddie promptly passed out, falling off of the table and into Richie’s arms. Richie was by no means strong, and so the two went toppling to the floor. Tom burst into peals of cruel, terrible laughter, and the rest of the room followed suit. 

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Richie grunted, getting back on to his feet and looping his arms under Eddie’s armpits. “This sucks. Eds, I need your help.”

Eddie twitched but did not fully move, and Richie all but collapsed. He looked up at Stan, eyes desperate.

“Stan? Help?”

“I fucking guess,” Stan grumbled, stepping precisely back down the stairs and picking up Eddie’s legs. “Let’s get him outside."

They carried Eddie out onto the grass, trying to be careful with his head. Once they had him lying down, he wasted no time in rolling over and vomiting on to the Corcorans’ front lawn. Stan stepped back, repulsed.

“Sexy, isn’t he?” Richie remarked, face a little flushed. “Thanks for your help, Stangelina. I knew you were a good dude.”

“He needs to go home,” Stan pointed out, shivering and watching sadly as Eddie wiped his mouth with a tissue he had been keeping in his fanny pack.

“I can do it,” Richie promised, sitting down beside Eddie. “I’m sober as fuck. Eds, let me get you somewhere safe, yeah?”

“Don’t call me Eds,” Eddie mumbled, “you’re not John Cusack, so you can’t. _Say Anything_ was so...no, oh, no, I wanna….sleep, sleep is good…”

“No sleep!” Richie cried, pulling Eddie so that he was almost sitting upright. “No sleep. Too cold. We gotta go home.”

Eddie turned his head to look at Richie straight on, so close their noses were almost touching. “There’s little bits of green in your eyes. Did you know? It’s pretty.”

Richie blushed a deep red. “You’re the only one that sees that, I think. Ready to get up?”

In response, Eddie leaned in, closing his eyes in a way that clearly indicated that he was going for a kiss.

Stan sucked in a breath. This was _not_ something he wanted to bear witness to.

“No, no,” Richie said quietly, pushing Eddie away before he could get too close. “Not like this, kidddo, c’mon.”

Eddie opened his eyes and gawked at Richie, reeling from perceived rejection.

“You don’t--” he whispered, eyes watery with tears.

Richie took Eddie’s head in his hands, cradling it. “Eds, you know you’re not--.”

“No, _you’re_ not, Rich,” Eddie pushed away from Richie, wiping his eyes angrily on his sleeve and rising wobbily to his feet. “Take your fuckin’...fancy-ass _car_ , what the fuck, whatever the fuck. I gotta walk.”

“Don’t be stupid,” Richie sighed, rising to his knees. “I’m--”

“I don’t want it, _Tozier_ ,” Eddie said, suddenly (bizarrely) lucid. “Don’t take me home.”

Richie recoiled.

“If there were any other option,” he said slowly, “I wouldn’t, _Kaspbrak_. But this is what we’re looking at. Get in the fucking car.”

Eddie looked at him for a long moment, trying to come up with a way to fight. There wasn’t one, though - the Kaspbrak house was too far away for Eddie to be able to find in his drunken state, and Richie was right in saying that it was too cold for him to be out that long.

“Fuck you,’ he said heatedly, pushing himself to his feet and marching towards the road.

“Likewise,” Richie said, looking exhausted and sad. “Stanthony, I’m….I’m sorry, man. I’ll see you on Monday.”

“Monday,” Stan repeated, feeling a little shell-shocked as he watched Richie trail after Eddie.

Was Richie having feelings? Or, more - was Richie having feelings that Stan actually cared about?

It must just be the party atmosphere, Stan decided. Non-party Stan would never endorse any of this.

“Did you do this?” A voice called weakly from the bushes. Stan turned to find Dorsey Corcoran pushing through his own hedges, wearing a puffy jacket. His eyes were red from crying and (probably) alcohol. “Stan?”

Stan smiled coolly. _Finally._ “Do you like my visor, Dorsey?”

“I didn’t want to have to kick you out, Stan,” Dorsey said, keeping a wary distance, “but I couldn’t overlook--”

“You can be a businessman and love the Backstreet Boys,” Stan said, rubbing his hands against his arms to stay warm. “You can be the class clown and love poetry; you can read Judith Butler and still get down to a Ricky Martin song at a party. The world doesn’t follow any rules.”

“Whatever.” Dorsey kicked at a piece of grass. “So do you want back in, or…”

“I don’t think I do.” Stan gave a small wave, and stepped towards the house. “You deserve this, Dorsey. Have fun cleaning tomorrow.”

“I hope you get puked on,” Dorsey replied dully, walking towards the backyard with his shoulders slumped.

Stan watched him leave with an amount of quiet satisfaction. The interaction wasn’t as vindictive as he’d imagined it would be, but he was weirdly okay with it. In fact, he wasn’t even really feeling hatred towards Dorsey anymore. Just...pity.

He was really going soft in his old age, wasn’t he? Making new friends, going easy on Dorsey Corcoran...Bill was right. Who was he, and what had he done with Stanley Uris?

He kind of liked this new Stan, though. New Stan was hopeful - for his friends, and their budding relationships, and for himself, and the concept of riding out the rest of high school with the people he cared about (which now included _Richie Tozier_ , somehow. What a world).

New Stan was going back inside specifically to take a cheesy picture with his boyfriends, and New Stan was fucking _excited_ about it.

“Mike?” he called, making his way towards the kitchen. “You here?”

“Stan?” Mike’s voice called from behind a row of cabinets. “Hey, angel. C’mere.”

Stan shoved past a couple that was making out (was that Carla Bordeaux and the guy Richie told her to hook up with? Still? Really??) and moved to join Mike on the other side of the room. When he got closer, he saw that Bill was there, too.

“You get in some guh-good ones?” Bill asked, reaching for Stan and running his hands over his shoulders.

“He got what was coming to him,” Stan responded simply, tapping meaningfully on Bill’s chest with the heel of his hand. “I also ran into Ben and RIchie.”

Bill’s eyes lit up. “What huh-happened?”

Stan shook his head. “Things got...well, we’ll see on Monday, I guess. Odds are better for Bev and Ben than for Richie and Eddie.”

Bill closed his eyes and shook his head. “D-damn it. I think Richie really luh-likes him.”

Mike huffed out a laugh, tugging on his Space Jam t-shirt to give himself some air. “Richie really likes the money that Tom Rogan’s forking over, you mean.”

“I don’t thuh-think,” Bill started, “that it’s abuh-hout that for Richie anymore.”

“Yeah, I’d agree with that, I think,” Stan said. “I witnessed Richie turn down an opportunity to make out with a cute girl in order to defend Eddie’s honor tonight. That’s pretty next level.”

Mike whistled. “Well, shit, y’all.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Stan reminded them, touching both of their arms lightly. “It’ll be good if it happens, sad if it doesn’t, but right now the most important thing going on for us is taking a picture and then getting the fuck out of this den of sin.”

“Thuh-there’s our Stan,” Bill smiled fondly. “Mike?”

“Way ahead of you.” Mike was handing the camera to a girl who looked uncomfortably sober. “Get ready.”

Stan slid his arm around Bill’s waist, and Bill reached over to grab at the front of Stan’s button-down. Mike walked over and slung his arm around both of them.

“Say cheese,” said the girl, a little hysterically.

“Cheese,” Mike and Bill responded as the flash of the disposable camera went off.

Later, when people asked Stan about the printed picture of him beaming with his two boyfriends in somebody’s kitchen, he would tell them that he was, historically, not a party person …

….but the world doesn’t follow any goddamn rules.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> STANLEY URIS IS A GOOD AND LOYAL FRIEND THANK YOU FOR COMING TO MY TED TALK
> 
> come chat with me about Secret Soft Stan in the comments or:
> 
> strictlyamess.tumblr.com (main)  
> skeletonscribbles.tumblr.com (writing)


	6. "Your Winter" (Bev)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Bev studied his face, astonished. “Oh, shit. You really like him.”
> 
> Richie’s ears went crimson, and Bev could tell it wasn’t from the cold."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> y'all ready for some sweet Bev & Richie friendship? how 'bout some Benverly? we got it all here, folks!

**BEVERLY**   
**JANUARY 3RD, 2000**   
**One Month(ish) after Dorsey Corcoran’s Party**

Beverly Marsh didn’t have a favorite color, but she sure as hell had a least favorite: January gray.

It had kind of been that color gray outside since the middle of December, which she figured was a big middle finger from the universe directly to her for the decisions she’d made at Dorsey’s party. Gray made her feel lonely, made her question her decisions, and worst of all, made her stand out against the sky like a fire in the night.

(Standing out wasn’t really a good thing, in the Marsh household. The more you stood out, the more Alvin Marsh’s eyes would be on you.)

The gray outside now was encapsulating, and Bev stared up into it from where she was sitting (next to the bleachers, just next to the fence dividing the football field grass from the regular grass). She was supposed to be in Geometry, but she just couldn’t bring herself to set foot in that awful math class after a whole week’s worth of break from it. Even January gray couldn’t deter her from skipping.

Besides, she’d survived Y2K. She deserved a break from math in light of that.

“Hey,” a voice called from over by the pavement, and she shot to her feet, ready to outrun any teacher, administrator, or even student that came her way. She wasn’t about to trust anyone not to turn her in - not when a phone call to her father might be at stake.

Except…

“Beverly Marsh, I presume!” Richie Tozier waved at her, slipping into a thick and terrible English accent. “Mind if I join ye, miss?”

She didn’t _trust_ Richie Tozier, per se, but as company went, she could definitely do worse.

“Only if you promise to put the English Guy voice to rest,” she said, sitting back down and patting the ground next to her.

“Grazie, ragazza.” Richie smiled lightly and sat next to her on the grass, tapping his hands against his thighs in a tellingly nervous manner.

“Is that Spanish?” Bev asked, watching his fingers and wondering.

“Italian,” Richie said, sliding his hands up and into the pockets of his denim jacket. He extracted a package of Marlboro Reds and a lighter, and held them out to her. “Smoke?”

“Actually, yeah.” Bev slid a cigarette out of the cardboard box, and put it between her lips. “I used to sneak my dad’s Camels, but he’s been coming home late, so it’s been a while.”

“Are you asking me not to make fun of you if you cough?” Richie asked, raising his eyebrows. “Because I’m not sure if I’m capable of that, physically.”

“Well, try,” she said, clicking the lighter. “How do you speak Italian, anyway? Padua only offers Spanish, French, Latin, and that weird ASL elective that Eddie’s in.”

She took a drag from the cigarette, and did end up coughing, but Richie was too distracted by her mention of Eddie to say anything.

“Yeah,” he responded, unusually quiet, “I like languages. I’m good at ‘em. Words are my thing. ASL, though, that would be…”

“I think he misses you,” Bev said, answering the question she knew Richie was trying to ask. “He won’t say it out loud, but he’s been kind of off since Dorsey’s party.”

Richie gave her a blank look. “When Mike asked, Eddie told him that he hated me with the power of a thousand suns.”

Bev couldn’t help but let out a short laugh. “Eddie Kaspbrak, dramatic as ever. He doesn’t hate you, I’m sure - although, again, he won’t talk to me about it. What the hell did you do at that party?”

“He was drunk,” Richie said, lighting his own cigarette. “He tried to kiss me, but I didn’t want him to do anything he might regret in the morning, so I stopped it.”

“Oh.” Bev nodded, thinking the situation over. “You hurt his feelings.”

“I didn’t mean to,” Richie said, turning his head to look directly at her. “Honest to God, that’s not what I meant.”

Bev studied his face, astonished. “Oh, shit. You really like him.”

Richie’s ears went crimson, and Bev could tell it wasn’t from the cold. “I...were you there, last year, at the Audra Phillips thing?”

“No.” Bev had really wanted to go, but she was too behind in French to be able to justify spending time on anything that wasn’t studying. “Were you?”

“Yeah.” Richie exhaled smoke slowly; deliberately. “Words are my thing, remember? Anyway. I saw him there. I didn’t talk to him, but I felt...I don’t know. Like, a kinship maybe? LIke he could be someone that I...fuck, Marsh, I don’t know how to explain it, really.”

“You’ve liked him for that long? Since last spring?” Bev had hoped, in inviting Richie to pursue her friend, that it would be beneficial for both of them eventually, but she apparently hadn’t realized the depth of what she’d encouraged.

“No.” Richie looked at his feet. “Well, maybe? I was intrigued, you know? Kid shows up at a poetry event, looking like a fucking sweater pixie...pretty rad, pretty rad. So I accepted Tom Rogan’s thing, thinking like, what the hell, I know the kid’s cool, right? But then he...I’ve never had anyone who could keep up with me before, if that makes sense. Like, he just fires back, right away, and the shit he says is funny and _smart_ , and he’s so sweet looking when he’s revved up. Christ.” He paused, studying his cigarette. “I’m supposed to be in English class right now, but I couldn’t go in there and sit with him and his hatred and my feelings. I would’ve just gone postal staring at the back of his pretty head.”

Bev put her hand on Richie’s shoulder tentatively. “He doesn’t hate you. Eddie’s just...closed off, I guess. I know that’s like, the understatement of the century, but still. I think you should keep trying.” She thought about all of the things people had said about Eddie over the years - all the things people had said about _both_ of them, Eddie _and_ Richie, and felt her heart break for them a little bit. “He needs someone like you.”

Richie leaned into her touch a little bit. “How’d you and he connect, anyway? Do they offer an angry feminism class here that nobody told me about? Fucking rude. I read _The Bell Jar_ too, yaknow.”

Bev looked at Richie, took in the vulnerability in his expression, and decided to trust a little bit. “My dad,” she began, taking a deep breath, “is not great, has never been great, and because of that, I think, I’ve always kind of had a hard time being okay around guys. Everybody in my grade thought that was weird, so coming into high school I didn’t really have friends.”

Richie looked over at her over his glasses, smiling in spite of himself. “So you rolled in and picked Eds to be your numero uno? Weird choice, coming from someone who’s not big on hanging with dudes.”

“Kind of,” Bev agreed, “but we had art together, we had a lot in common, and I’d heard the rumors - I knew he wasn’t going to, you know, be a typical idiot guy. No offense.”

Richie raised a hand concessively. “I know what you mean.”

“Anyway,” she continued, “I care about him a lot, so whatever you do, don’t break his heart, okay? Like, don’t be a dick, and definitely don’t tell him that Tom paid you.”

Richie nodded, kind of to himself. “I’m not a bad person, really. Most of the rumors and stuff are made up.”

“They usually are,” Bev said, smiling a little. “I was kind of hoping the one about you spending time in jail was real, though. I know that’s why Tom’s a little scared of you.”

Richie sat back, leaning on his hands. “Okay, so that part I don’t get. Tom Rogan? Really? Didn’t he repeat the fifth grade, like, eight times?”

“That’s Belch Huggins, I think,” Bev corrected, “or Bowers. But you’re right, I dunno what I was thinking. Maybe that I was feeling kind of open to romance, and Tom was just...there.” She clenched and unclenched her teeth, and continued. “Or - the only real example of romance that I’ve had is my mom and dad, and Tom and my dad...I just don’t know. But. I’m pretty sure I don’t want to see him again.”

“Well,” Richie said, “that’ll complicate the fact that he offered me more money to take Eddie to the Winter Ball so that he could take you. Like...a lot more money.”

Bev almost laughed. “Holy shit, really? Take the money, dude, that’s awesome.”

“Two things,” Richie began, holding up two fingers. “One, if you’re not going to the dance, what’s the point of me doing something so that you can go to the dance, hm? Two, and this is very important to remember: Eddie fucking hates me.”

“I could go to the dance,” Bev mumbled, blood rushing to her face. “There’s, um, someone that I’m hoping is gonna ask me.”

Richie’s face lit up. “Oh, tell me it’s Haystack. Ben Handsome’s so frickin’ in love with you, Marsh, it’s so wild.”

Bev nodded, grinning. “Yeah. I don’t know if he’s gonna make a move, though? He drove me home from Dorsey’s, and he was kind of mad about it because Tom, but then I kissed him goodbye and he smiled and it was so _sweet_ , just like - like no other guy I’ve ever known, really. But since then, it’s just been like, normal? Like, we do French tutoring and stuff, but we just...haven’t talked about it? That’s totally wack, right?”

They made eye contact for a quick, strange second, and then both burst out laughing.

“Benny’s just shy, I think,” Richie said. “You might have to ask him yourself...if I can work an Eddie Kaspbrak miracle, that is.”

“I think I can help you out, there,” Bev offered, quickly putting together a plan in her head. “It’s gonna take something big - so that he knows you’ve been thinking about him and all that. Do you know his favorite movie?”

“He said something about _Say Anything_ at the party?” Richie guessed.

“Yep, and how about his favorite song?”

“He got really excited when they played Africa…” Richie had a very expressive face - Bev could see the exact moment when he clued in to what she was saying. “Oh, yes, okay. I’m into this, I think.”

“I’ll recruit in the rest of your little posse to help,” Bev promised, “I’ll see Ben today after school for tutoring, and the other three are usually lurking around the shelves, so we can plan.”

“You’re sure it’ll work?” Richie asked. He looked excited, but also more than a little nervous.

“Never sure, with Eddie,” Bev said honestly, “but it’s your best bet.” She paused, crossing her arms over her chest and thinking about the men in her life. “I’ll ask Ben...just, fuck, Richie, Ben’s such a good guy. I don’t….I’ve never…like, do I even deserve….?”

The bell rang. They sat frozen for a moment, not wanting to get up.

“Right. Thanks for the smoke,” Bev finally said, pushing herself up and gathering her backpack. “We’ll keep planning.”

She began walking back towards the school, wondering if she’d just made a new friend.

“Molly Ringwald,” Richie called as she neared the pavement.

She turned around and fixed him with an unimpressed glare. “Really? A Brat Pack nickname? It's the year 2000, Richie, try to stay relevant.”

He didn't respond to her quip. “Just...don’t let anyone ever make you feel like you don’t deserve what you want,” he said instead, smiling softly as he picked up his own backpack. “You deserve this, kid; you deserve all of it. See you soon.”

The sun peeked out from behind the clouds, and when Beverly smiled back, it was with her entire being.

\----

When it came time for tutoring that afternoon, the clouds were almost all cleared away, and the sun was shining. She took that as a good sign.

“Puis-je vous emprunter votre stylo?” Ben asked, squinting down at the small print of the French book.

“Non,” she replied, tapping her pencil anxiously.

He frowned, furrowing his eyebrows. “Oh. I guess. Okay. Uh. Où est la bibliothèque?”

She knew that Richie was right when he said that Ben was shy, but there were only so many pointless French questions she could take in the space of an hour.

“Au cul,” she said curtly, mostly confident in her knowledge of French curse words.

Ben flipped helplessly between pages. “That’s not in this section…”

“Ben.” Bev smiled sweetly and took a deep breath. “Veux-tu aller à la danse avec moi?”

He stared at her, and she could almost see him going through the process of trying to translate and then fully understand what she’d just said.

“Is that the correct way of phrasing that?” he asked, finally.

Bev grabbed the French book from his side of the table and threw it on to the ground.

“I don’t give a shit about French, Ben,” she said, honest and open, “just answer my question.”

The reality of the situation hit him suddenly and impactfully.

“Are you serious?” he asked weakly, seemingly unable to help the smile that was creeping across his face.

“Come to Winter Ball with me, Ben,” she said, more nervously than she’d meant to, “please.”

“I’d love to.” Ben’s smile was crazy huge, now - a thousand volts of sweet happiness. Bev felt her heart speed up a little bit. “I’d love, love, love, love to, holy...Beverly Marsh, _wow_.”

The beginning of a cheer sounded from across the library, followed by the unmistakable sound of two people clapping their hands over the perpetrator’s mouth.

Ben’s smile dimmed a little bit. “Damn it, Bill.”

Bev didn’t mind. She thought it was pretty funny, actually, and told Ben as much. “Let’s bring ‘em over. I’ve got a mission for them, anyway, so that I can actually go to this thing without feeling guilty as hell.”

Ben nodded, and stood up. “Hey, nerds, c’mere!”

Bill wasted no time in launching himself at them, crowing his congratulations and earning no less than six dirty looks from the librarian. Mike and Stan were more sheepish, but also seemed excited.

_Maybe I didn’t only make one new friend today,_ Bev thought, awash with happiness, _maybe I made five_.

“All right,” she said, when all of the excitement was out of the way, “listen. We’ve gotta get Richie back in with Eddie--”

“Richie embarrassed huh-him,” Bill interrupted, “he has to suh-sacrifice himself on the altar of dignity and even the s-s-score.”

Ben looked impressed. “Is that Shakespeare?”

“Why would you say that in a place where people can hear you?” Mike asked, looking at both of them like they’d each grown an extra head.

“None of this is the point,” Stan interjected matter-of-factly. “I hope you have an idea for this, Beverly, because the only thing I can think of is getting Richie to write and present a love poem for Mr. King’s new sonnet assignment, and that’s really not something I’m interested in hearing.”

“The phrase ‘my wang’ does lend itself to the form,” Ben pointed out. "It rhymes with a lot of stuff, and fits neatly into iambic pentameter."

"How dare you make me listen to that sentence with my own two ears," Stan said, aghast.

“No, no. There’s a better thing. Richie already knows,” Bev said, “but we’re gonna need you guys, too. Does anyone have any ideas about how to smuggle a boom box in to school?”

As they planned together, divvying up what needed to be done, Bev looked outside and beamed. January gray was over; the sky was totally blue.

Things were looking up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ooooooh boy, lots to talk about here.
> 
> First, I know that in the movie, Patrick (the Richie character) says the "deserve" line to Cameron (the Ben character), but I just...felt like Bev needed it more, you know?
> 
> Second, the French is per Google Translate. (I speak Spanish and Italian; French only in where it overlaps with those.) I'm keeping it that way, because both Ben and Bev are terrible at French and their tutoring sessions go Nowhere. Rough translations are as follows:
> 
> _Puis-je vous emprunter votre stylo?_ = Can I borrow your pen?
> 
> _Non_ = no
> 
> _Où est la bibliothèque?_ = Where is the library?
> 
> _Au cul_ = Up your ass
> 
> _Veux-tu aller à la danse avec moi?_ = WIll you go to the dance with me?
> 
> Third, deaf Eddie headcanons and fics have a special place in my heart, so the ASL thing is a shout to that :)
> 
> Aaaaand finally, I know this is a quick, emotional blip of a chapter, but there's only one Loser left who hasn't gotten a POV section yet, and his is gonna be a doozy, so it's gonna take me an extra day or so to get that together. With that, I wanted to get y'all this content ASAP so I could start working on the next bit as quickly as I could :)
> 
> Please come chat in the comments! I'm very excited to discuss Bill's eavesdropping habits.  
> Also:  
> strictlyamess.tumblr.com (personal)  
> skeletonscribbles.tumblr.com (writing)


	7. "Wings of a Dove" (Richie)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ""Now, before you start making jokes about whether that’s a roll of quarters in my pants or a boner, I should warn you now - it’s a roll of quarters. I always come prepared to handle a stick." He waggled his eyebrows, even though he knew Eddie couldn’t see him.
> 
> “Joystick’s kind of a double entendre,” Eddie pointed out, smiling thinly."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> at last, Richie Tozier delivers with some sweet content

**RICHIE**  
**JANUARY 11th, 2000**  
**One week after The Plan was concocted**

There were a lot of things that Richie Tozier had convinced himself, over the course of his high school career, that he didn’t care about.

First off, he didn’t care about friends. Nobody was going to understand his interests or sense of humor until he left small-town Maine - he knew that, he’d accepted that, and he didn’t need any needless small talk or awkward interactions in the meantime.

Second, he didn’t care about what people were saying about him. He knew the truth: he was Richie Tozier, music nerd, dick joke connoisseur, bisexual virgin. His parents were average and ordinary: local dentist Wentworth Tozier (distant, but generally good for allowance and an occasional laugh) and Freese’s advertising associate Maggie Tozier (kind of a lush, but hardworking and ultimately kind), and together, the three of them were a pretty functional family unit. He hadn’t been suspended, or spent time in jail, or had lots of sex - and he wasn’t having a bad time at home by any means. The kids at school didn’t care about the truth, though, so Richie let them say what they wanted to say. They weren’t hurting anybody; again, he wasn’t much for friends, so having a social reputation wasn’t really going to make anything worse.

Finally, and most importantly, he didn’t care about love.  
Now, he wasn’t averse to admiring attractiveness. He had posters of rock stars in various states of undress littering the walls of his room. There wasn’t really a rhyme or reason to his choices, except that they were all beautiful to him. Bowie, Kurt Cobain, Alanis Morrissette, Gwen Stefani...he had enough material in his spank bank to last him until he was 80, he was sure.

But love...well. Love was something the fuck else, and he wasn’t sure if he understood what the fuss was about. He’d learned from experience that attaching feelings to situations usually led to getting hurt (it wasn’t ol’ Went’s fault that he missed every single one of young Richie’s guitar recitals - he was a busy man - but goddamn if the first few didn’t sting), and if the situation involved the unpredictability of another person, then the odds of heartbreak were probably even more likely. Why would he take that risk? He was happy enough as it was.

Unsurprisingly, then, this Kaspbrak deal that he’d made was extremely irritating in that it was forcing him to care about not one, not two, but _all three_ of the things he’d worked so hard to detach himself from.

First and foremost, to his utter confusion and mild chagrin, it was turning out to be really fucking cool to have friends.

“I brought my boom box,” announced Mike, pedaling his old Schwinn bike over to Richie’s space under the bleachers. It had become the designated ‘before-school meet-up place’ over the course of the last two months, even through the freezing weather, and Richie had been kind of shocked to discover that he enjoyed the morning company. “Do you have the CD?’

Richie held up his copy of _Toto IV_. “Done and done, Michael.”

Stan held his hand out for it. “Let’s test it.”

“The thing is literally designed to play CDs, Stanthony.” Richie clutched the disc to his chest. “It’ll do its job.”

“This is happening before lunch, right?” Ben asked, eyeing the equipment warily. “Are you guys gonna have to carry that stuff around all day?”

“It’s a first-period adventure,” Richie confirmed, “and Mike, fair warning, the boom box is probably gonna get confiscated.”

Mike sighed and shrugged. “I’ll deal, I guess, as long as you’re the one that takes the hit for having it.”

“Sure thing, onion ring.” Richie ran his hands through his hair, unable to stop his nerves from spilling out into every single one of his appendages. “Uh. How do I look.”

“Like a disaster,” Stan replied automatically, not even bothering to grace Richie’s outfit with a once-over.

“No,” Bill quickly jumped in. “You look really nuh-nuh-nice. The Bikini Kill shirt is a good t-touch.”

“And the matching black and pink nail polish,” Mike confirmed. “From what Bev’s said of Eddie, that’s right up his alley.”

“Right up mine, too,” Richie murmured, smiling at his hands.

He looked up to see Stan looking back, expression serious and wary.

“Problem?” Richie asked, a little unnerved.

“Just…” Stan trailed off, reaching up to tug at the curls of his bangs. “Be careful, okay? Like, I know you’re an idiot who doesn’t care about the outrageous shit that literally everyone says about you, but...before today, the gay piece was just a rumor. After today, people are going to know, and some people are really not going to like it.”

And there was the second thing - the not caring about what people thought, forced out the proverbial window.

“Eddie deals with it,” Richie pointed out. “Eddie’s dealt with it for a year. Granted, it’s made him extremely hostile and unwilling to trust, but those are personal turn-ons for me, so--”

“Be serious,” Ben said softly, obvious care in the lines of his face. Richie felt a pang in his gut. No other person under the age of 30 had ever looked at him that way, to the best of his memory. “It’s hard for Eddie. It probably won’t be easy for you.”

“But I’ll have help,” Richie found himself saying...found himself _believing_ , as he looked out at the four concerned faces peering back at him. “You guys and Bev. Right?”

“And hopefully, Eddie,” Bill reminded him.

The nerves reemerged, and Richie felt his fingers twitch involuntarily. “Hopefully.”

The bell rang for first period, and they all turned together to look towards the entrance to the school. It was go time.

“See you up there, Stangelina?” Richie asked, willing his voice not to crack. “Like...way, way, up?”

“I’ll be the one not caring,” Stan confirmed, a smile undercutting the sting of his words. “Can’t miss me.”

“Couldn’t if I tried.” Richie looked around at his new friends one last time and allowed himself to feel good about the connections he’d made; good about his decision to sit with them at lunch back in November, good about the fact that they cared about him, even though they were all going to college in six months and might not remember his name in a year. For now, for now, he could feel good.

“Go get ‘em, John Cusack,” Mike smiled, and the moment was broken. The four of them headed to class, and Richie started off to try and figure out which set of windows led to Mr. King’s classroom.

It turned out to be a pretty easy task. Mr. King’s lectures were monotonous, but they were also loud, so Richie was able to find his way to the correct windows simply by listening for Mr. King’s stupid, droning voice.

Once he got there, he made quick work of putting the CD player into the boombox, and then waited with his heart in his throat.

“Mr. King,” a higher pitched, clear voice rang out from the room above, “Richie Tozier’s missing for the fifth time in seven days. Shouldn’t we send someone to find him?”

The butterflies in Richie’s stomach exploded. _Eddie had been paying attention._

“Mr. Tozier is an eighteen year old adult that can make his own choices,” Mr. King said boredly. “At present, he is choosing to consistently miss English class at such a rate that he is in danger of losing credit for the course...and that is his problem, not any of ours.”

Shit. Richie hadn’t realized he’d been skipping that much. He’d have to make a more concerted effort to get to class - Mags and Went kept a pretty tight eye on his grades. (Not that there was ever a problem, there; Richie was bright and diligent about school assignments, but they still looked.)

“What if he needs help?” Eddie asked, soft enough that Richie was straining to hear him.

“He needs help, all right,” Mr. King agreed, and a murmur of classroom laughter followed that statement, “but again, Mr. Kaspbrak, it is none of our concern.”

That seemed like the right moment to put the plan into action. Taking a deep breath, Richie sent up a quick prayer to whatever higher powers were listening that the CD would actually play (he should have agreed to Stan’s test, _he should have agreed to Stan’s test_ ), pressed the appropriate buttons on the boombox, and lifted it high over his head.

The opening chords to Toto’s Africa blared out, loud and unmistakable, and Richie exhaled hard.

“What on Earth--” Mr. King began, but he was drowned out by the sound of chairs being pushed in as the entire class clambered over themselves to get to the windows.

“It’s Richie Tozier!” Betty Ripsom was the first to get a good look at him, and so was obligated to send out the cry. The flurry inside got louder.

“Tozier?!?”

“What the fuck?”

“Oh my god, is this some kind of weird behavior thing from when he was in jail?”

Amidst the chaos, Richie saw Eddie sneak into the corner of the leftmost window. The butterflies multiplied again.

God, his feelings were going to be the death of him, weren’t they? Richie could safely say that he’d never felt as nervous as he did right then, in that very second, looking into Eddie Kaspbrak’s wide, beautiful eyes.

But...he was a words guy. He could do this through words - he could _do this_.

“Eds,” he called, hoisting the boombox higher. “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry?” Eddie seemed caught off guard. A blush was creeping its way across his face. He stood up a little bit, trying and failing to not notice everyone’s eyes on him. “Sorry for what, dipshit?”

“The party,” Richie said, “the bad flirting, the stupid mom jokes. I didn’t want it to be like that.”

“Then what did you want?” Eddie asked, elbowing the person next to him so that he could move to see Richie better.

The chorus to the song kicked in, and Richie let it help him feel brave.

“I want you to come to Winter Ball with me,” he announced, trying his best to ignore the gasps and whispers that followed his words. “Please.”

Eddie was tomato red, now. Richie saw him glance over at Tom Rogan, trying to gauge how badly he was going to be teased after this. Fortunately, Tom seemed pretty focused on keeping his mouth shut, which was really the least he could do, given that it was his stupid money that had gotten Richie into this feelings situation in the first place.

(Well, the money was only part of it...but Richie could pretend.)

“It seems you’ve found a way to shut Mr. Kaspbrak up, so kudos for that, Mr. Tozier.” Mr. King had pushed his way to the front of the student group at the windows. “Now, Mr. Kaspbrak, kindly give the man an answer so that we can resume class.”

“Okay,” Eddie said, finally, looking back down at Richie with an expression that was both exasperated and fond. “Fine. I’ll go. Now turn that stupid thing off, other people are probably taking tests.”

It was true. Other classes had started congregating around their windows as well.

“Fuck yes!” Richie yelled, pumping his fist in the air and almost losing his grip on the boombox in the process.

“Turn it off, Tozier,” Mr. King repeated, “and go--”

“To the office, yeah, yeah.” Richie brought the boombox back down and paused the song, feeling giddy in a way that he’d never felt giddy before. “Holy shit, Mr. King! I’m going to Winter Ball with Eddie Kaspbrak!”

“You’re going to the office,” Mr. King corrected, “and the rest of us are going back to work. Good day.”

The class shuffled away from the windows until only Eddie and Stan remained. Both were smiling. Richie blew a kiss to Eddie with one hand and flipped Stan off with the other, and laughing, they both made rude gestures at him in return, stepping away from their respective windows.

Holy shit.

When campus security inevitably came a few seconds later to collect him to bring him to his punishment, Richie was sprawled on the ground, fingers buried tight in winter brown grass in an attempt to keep from floating away out of sheer happiness. Let them give him detention - let them give him a month’s worth of detentions, including Saturdays. He didn’t care. 

He had five friends who cared about and supported him.

He had a date with the smartest, wittiest, and most beautiful boy in school.

Holy _shit_.

\----

He took back his mental offer to serve a month’s worth of detentions about five minutes into his first one - which, incidentally, was that very afternoon. Detention sucked. He wasn’t about to serve more of them than he had to.

In a fortunate turn of events, he’d only gotten one. The main office had ricocheted him out to Mr. Keene in guidance for a “psychological check-in”, and Mr. Keene had been more inspired by his story than upset by it. Richie didn’t want to think about that too much - it had been a really great moment for him, and the thought of Mr. Keene turning it into some kind of porn scene for his romance novel was...not ideal.

Still, he was grateful. He’d imagined that he would have to stay after for at least a week.

The detention supervisor was Mr. Carson, Richie’s chemistry teacher. Richie felt kind of bad for him - he was relatively new, and this duty had obviously been forced on him by his older colleagues. It wasn’t a hard job - there wasn’t much to do once all the students had signed in, and all the students were currently signed in - but it was often disturbing. Right now, he was looking up and down the rows of desks despondently. His eyes settled on Patrick Hocksetter, and he frowned.

“Hocksetter?” Mr. Carson crossed to him. “Are you high?”

“High?” Patrick looked up at him and smiled, reaching for his pencil case. “I’m God.”

Mr. Carson looked at Patrick and then down at the pencil case, and made a split second decision.

“Not today,” he said, walking back to his desk quickly. “Not today, I can’t engage with that today. Keep that case shut, please.”

Patrick scowled and clutched the case to his chest. Richie quickly looked away in case he decided to open it anyway. He didn’t ever want to know what was inside that thing.

“Excuse me, Mr. Carson?” A familiar voice sounded from the doorway, and Richie’s heart immediately started hammering against the front of his chest.

“Eddie Kaspbrak?” Mr. Carson stood up, confused. “You don’t have detention, do you?”

“I don’t,” Eddie confirmed.

“Okay, phew,” Mr. Carson said, “so hell hasn’t frozen over. What’re you doing here, then?”

“I had a question about an assignment,” Eddie said, taking a few steps in and looking over at Richie.

“A homework assignment?” Mr. Carson’s brow furrowed. “We didn’t have homework today, Eddie.”

“Oh.” Eddie fidgeted nervously. He looked like he was trying to gesture to Richie - was he waving him towards the window? “Um. I was looking ahead, you know, at assignments, and I noticed….uh….um...I noticed a……..HUGE SPIDER!”

“Where?” Mr. Carson looked around wildly.

“There!” Eddie shrieked, pointing to an area by the door. Once he was sure Mr. Carson’s attention was occupied by the spider search, Eddie turned to Richie again, now unmistakably gesturing for him to leave via the window. He was even going so far as to mouth ‘go now’.

What a fucking world. Eddie Kaspbrak was breaking him out of detention.

“Eddie, I don’t see--”

“No, no, now it’s coming towards me…” and Eddie walked closer to where Mr. Carson was, “and OH MY GOD, IT’S ON ME, HOLY--”

Richie made a mad dash for the window, opening it and quickly climbing out. Before he made the short, one-floor fall to the grass outside, he turned around to see if he’d gotten caught - and instead saw Eddie with his pants around his ankles, with a clearly flustered Mr. Carson checking him for spiders.

He supposed he should feel jealous, but instead, he was strangely touched and a little turned on.

He landed pretty much on his feet, and took a leisurely walk around the building towards the main entrance to wait for Eddie. It seemed safe to assume that Eddie had broken him out of detention because he wanted to tell him something, and not out of the goodness of his heart...and anyway, he wanted to thank his savior for heroically removing his pants in pursuit of justice.

It took Eddie another ten minutes to exit the building.

“I’m sorry!’ Eddie called to him from the door, a little short of breath. “He tried to make me go to the nurse, and then he tried to make me go to guidance, but either one of those people would call my mom, and then I’d be in the ER all weekend, so I had to--”

“Whoa there, sweetheart,” Richie said, feeling a goofy smile slide on to his face at the sight of Eddie’s flustered face. “It’s okay. More than okay. I thought I was caught for sure when I was going out the window - what’d you do to keep him distracted?”

Eddie blushed. “I dazzled him with my...wits.”

“Of course,” Richie grinned cheekily. “Wits. Very sexy.”

Eddie’s eyes widened. “Oh, God, did you _see?_ ”

“I did,” Richie admitted. “And seriously, thank you. No one’s ever smuggled me out of detention before, much less stripped for Mr. Carson for me.”

“I didn’t want you to have to be in there,” Eddie mumbled, picking at his nails. “What you did was really….it was nice. _Say Anything_ ’s my favorite movie, and Africa’s my favorite song.” He shot Richie an embarrassed look. “I assume Bev told you that.”

“Actually, _you_ did,” Richie said lightly, “at the party.”

Eddie groaned. “Damn it. I was so gone.”

Richie shrugged. “It was cute. You’ve got some dance moves, Spaghetti.”

“Spaghetti?” Eddie wrinkled his nose.

“Eddie Spaghetti,” explained Richie, “since you’re so opposed to Eds as a nickname.”

“Spaghetti is worse.” Eddie shifted from foot to foot awkwardly. “Anyway. You, uh...you wanna go somewhere?”

Richie felt the butterflies rev back up. “You askin’ me on a date, Eds?”

Eddie glared back. “Eds is still bad, asshat!”

“Okay, then, _beautiful_.” Richie beamed, slinging his arm over Eddie’s shoulders and marveling at how tingly his skin felt wherever it was touching Eddie’s. “Let’s go on a date.”

“It’ll be a date with the Grim Reaper if you don’t stop with the pet names,” Eddie warned, but he let Richie keep his arm around him anyway as they walked away from Padua High and towards downtown Derry.

\----

“So this is where you disappear off to at night?” Eddie looked around the small arcade with interest. “I didn’t even know Derry had an arcade.”

Richie smiled sheepishly, sliding his hands into the pockets of his jean jacket. “Yup, my stomping grounds. I think most of our classmates got tired of it in here, like, a decade ago, but whatever. More high scores for me.”

Eddie nodded, pausing by the old Mortal Kombat II console. “It’s cool. I’m not surprised my mom didn’t want me to see it. She’s always been very opposed to letting me have fun.”

“She sounds like a real piece of work,” Richie said slowly, remembering Eddie’s ER comment from earlier.

“Yeah.’ Eddie ran his hands over the Mortal Kombat buttons carefully. “She hates germs, and fun, and gay people, and me, most of the time.” He looked back, smiling sadly at Richie. “She’d hate you too, probably.”

“Everybody hates me,” Richie said dismissively. “I don’t know how anyone could hate you.”

“I’m sure Tom Rogan could give you some reasons.” Eddie blew a piece of hair out of his eyes, making his bangs stick up adorably. “But nobody hates you, Rich, c’mon. That’s stupid. Even I don’t hate you, even if you do hang out in decrepit old arcades. I see you’ve got a high score for this Mortal Kombat game - nice name, by the way. MYWANG? Soooo classy. Can you show me how to play Mortal Kombat, MYWANG?”

“It would be my honor, Spaghetti Man,” Richie grinned, coming up behind Eddie and sliding his large hands over Eddie’s small ones. Eddie shivered a little, but didn’t move away. “Now, before you start making jokes about whether that’s a roll of quarters in my pants or a boner, I should warn you now - it’s a roll of quarters. I always come prepared to handle a stick.” He waggled his eyebrows, even though he knew Eddie couldn’t see him.

“Joystick’s kind of a double entendre,” Eddie pointed out, smiling thinly.

Richie cackled, stepping back from Eddie to fish the quarters out of his pocket. “Eddie Kaspbrak gets off a good one!”

“You won’t be laughing when I beat all your scores,” retorted Eddie, putting his hands on his hips.

“Game on, Spaghetti,” Richie said, ripping open his roll of change and putting a quarter into the machine. “Game fucking on.”

After Eddie had the opportunity to practice a little, it turned out that he and Richie were pretty evenly matched at video games. Richie was better at fighter games, and Eddie was better at games that required a little more dexterity, like Crazy Taxi and the old Addams Family pinball machine. Richie tried to distract Eddie when he was playing pinball by humming the Addams theme song in his ear, but even with the added annoyance, Eddie beat Richie’s score on that machine easily.

“I’m impressed, Eds,” Richie said as Eddie entered his name into the number two spot on the Crazy Taxi leaderboard. “You’re a natural.”

“And you should be better at this, for all the money you spend here,” Eddie responded neatly, smiling proudly back at him anyway.

“We can’t all have the Taxi gift,” Richie laughed, deciding to be bold and grab for Eddie’s hand as he pulled it away from the machine. Eddie looked startled by the contact at first, but allowed it, staring down at their laced fingers with a small smile. Richie’s heart felt like it was in his fingertips, and he smiled back, probably a little too enthusiastically.

“Did you really sleep with Greta Bowie?” Eddie asked softly. Richie’s smile quickly fell. “After you asked me to the dance, she turned to me and told me you gave her herpes.” 

Richie sighed and shook his head. “No. Girls in particular really like to make stuff up about me, for some reason.” He looked at his feet, shifting uncomfortably. “I actually, uh, haven’t done it with anyone? So next time someone says something like that to you, just...don’t engage, I guess.”

Eddie nodded shyly, still looking at their joined hands. “I haven’t done it, either. I haven’t even kissed anyone.”

“Oh.” Richie had kissed Brenda Arrowsmith at the mall in 8th grade. It had been memorably unimpressive. “I guess I’d heard rumors about you, too, then.”

“Yeah, there’s a lot of bullshit that goes around.” Eddie huffed, and his shoulders went tense. “A lot of bullshit about me, specifically, thanks to Tom Rogan.”

Richie jerked his head up and looked around, hoping that none of Rogan’s cronies were there. Fortunately, the place was pretty deserted except for them - there was one other middle school kid trying (failing) to beat Richie’s score on Street Fighter II, and that was it.

Still, better not to risk anything.

“You wanna walk?” he asked, tugging at Eddie’s hand. 

Eddie looked a little apprehensive at the idea of holding hands with Richie in public, but he nodded anyway. “Let’s go.”

They left the arcade together, feeling warm in spite of the cold January air.

“True or false,” Richie started, “you kicked Belch Huggins in the nuts in ninth grade.”

“True, actually,” Eddie said, laughing brightly. “He tried to shove my whole body in a gym locker. It was self-defense.”

“Did you fit?” Richie couldn’t help but ask, which earned him a stomp on the foot.

“It doesn’t matter,” Eddie said, in a tone that clearly meant ‘yes’. “True or false, your home life is kinda shitty.”

“Oof, Eds coming in hard with the personal questions.” Richie pretended to double over. “That’s false. Mags and Went are pretty normal, as parents go, so don’t be worrying your pretty head over what happens to me outside of school.”

“I think I’m just going to assume now that if you’re not in school, you’re at that stupid arcade sucking really hard at pinball,” Eddie said sweetly, squeezing his hand. Richie threw back his head and laughed.

“Yeah, well, you wouldn’t be wrong. I don’t really go anywhere else.”

“I get that.” Eddie looked thoughtful. “For me, it’s my house and the bookstore. Bev and I like to meet up there to talk about stuff.”

“Like when I first asked you out,” Richie remembered.

Eddie looked up at him apologetically. “Yeah, sorry. I thought--”

“I know what you thought,” Richie assured him, “and although it wasn’t true, I get it. I went in too hard with the dick jokes...not that you can ever really come in too _hard--_ ”

“Beep beep,” Eddie said lightly, shoving at him with his unoccupied hand.

“What th--that’s so cute, Spaghetti, ho-leeee shit.” Richie couldn’t help but laugh at Eddie’s sweet little way of shutting him up. 

“It won’t be so cute when I start punctuating it with a kick to the shin,” Eddie grumbled.

“So violent.” Richie shook his head, pretending to be disappointed. “But yeah. Not trusting me is pretty par for the course. People have said some pretty shitty stuff about you...and about me.”

“Tom Rogan,” Eddie muttered, kicking at a rock on the ground.

“What about him?” Richie asked, thinking of the cash in his wallet and feeling uneasy.

“I’d fly under the radar, I think,” Eddie said sullenly, “if he hadn’t tried to kiss me last year.”

_What._

“Kiss you…?” Richie asked weakly. “Kiss you?!”

“Yeah.” Eddie sighed. “I turned him down because he’s a creep, so he outed me to the school and then started making up rumors.” He looked up at Richie sadly. “Don’t tell Bev.”

Fuck. So Rogan was using Bev as a beard? For what - to preserve his own masculinity? To make Eddie jealous?

“Does he still like you?” Richie asked before he could stop himself.

Eddie shrugged. “Probably not. I don’t know if he ever did - he was just gay, and I was there, and also gay, so he thought I’d be safe to try stuff out with. He clearly didn’t factor in that I wouldn’t touch him with a ten foot pole.”

“Poor Bev,” murmured Richie, shaking his head. “Poor you.”

“Not so poor, now,” Eddie said, holding up their joined hands. Richie’s heart did five backflips and tried again to exit through the front of his chest.

“Eddie--”

“Wow, my real name,” Eddie teased, “just in time for us to have reached my place.”

They stopped walking and stared up at Eddie’s mother’s big blue house in dismay.

“All right.” Richie tore his eyes from the house and looked over at Eddie. “So, you sick of me yet? You wanna take back saying yes to the dance?”

“True or false,” Eddie asked instead of answering the question, “you’ve really been thinking about me since the Audra Phillips reading last spring.”

“That’s...true,” Richie answered honestly - more honest, even, than he’d been with himself up to that point. “I used to doodle your sweater patterns in my class notes on the days when I actually made it all the way through English.”

“True or false...” Eddie began again, a little breathless.

“It’s my turn--” Richie protested.

“...you want to kiss me right now,” Eddie finished, finally looking back at Richie.

Richie, for once in his life, could not find the words with which to answer Eddie’s question.

“Because it’s true for me,” Eddie whispered, and leaned in to press his lips to Richie’s - a light, sweet brush of mouth against mouth.

They stood in silence for a long moment.

“Me too,” Richie said, finally. “True.”

Eddie smiled, genuine and dazzling, and Richie knew that his days of not caring about love were behind him forever. Richie Tozier was a guy that cared about stuff, now. The universe had spoken.

And here it was, speaking again: “Good. You can kiss me first next time.”

“Next time?” Richie asked breathily, leaning in to capture Eddie’s lips in a longer, more involved kiss. Neither of them were experienced enough for the kiss to be technically good, but what they lacked in practice they made up for in enthusiasm, and that was absolutely fine with Richie. He had Eddie’s hands in his hair, the back of Eddie’s jacket fisted in his hands, and Eddie’s lips on his. He was set for fucking life.

Eddie giggled and pulled back after a few minutes. “All right, all right. We’ve put on enough of a show for my mom, I think.”

Richie smiled wolfishly. “Tell her there’s more for her where that came from, if she plays her cards right.”

“I don’t even know what you’re trying to say with that, to be honest.” Eddie looked back at the house. “Yep, she’s spying. Cool. She’s probably gonna try and start me on suppressants again.”

Richie frowned. “That sounds illegal.”

“It is,” Eddie agreed. “She made me believe I was sick - like, deathly, lungs don’t work sick - until I was 13. I used to carry my stupid inhaler around everywhere.”

“Oh, you were Inhaler Kid? I sort of remember that.” Richie shook his head. “That’s incredibly fucked up, though. If you ever need a place to stay…”

“I’ll be okay,” Eddie assured, “but thank you. Just six more months until I go off to Sarah Lawrence, and then I’ll be home free.”

Richie felt his breath catch in his chest. “Sarah Lawrence is in New York, right?”

Eddie nodded. “I applied early. I should be hearing from them any day now.”

“My top choice is NYU,” Richie said quietly, opening the door to a conversation about their future that neither of them were actually ready to have.

“Oh.” Richie could almost see Eddie filing that away for future reference. “Soon, then. New York...soon.”

“And until then?” Richie asked, genuinely curious.

Eddie kissed him again in response, warm and sweet.

“Bring Mike Hanlon his boombox back tomorrow,” Eddie said when they broke apart, and disappeared with a little skip towards his own house. His mother was waiting at the door. She looked livid.

“I will,” Richie called out, “and I still love you the most, Mrs. K!” Richie blew Eddie’s mom a kiss and sprinted off into the sunset.

\----

Richie Tozier’s great truth, it turned out, was that he cared about everything.

He cared about his friends - about Bill’s sweet advice, Mike’s effortless cool, Ben’s giant heart, Bev’s firecracker remarks, and even Stan’s dry insults.

He cared about what people were saying - not what people were saying about him, so much, but rumors in general, and the way they affected others - affected Eddie.

He cared about Eddie. He cared _so much_ about Eddie, and the knowledge of that care thrummed in his bones as he made his way back to his own house.

He was going to have to figure out a way to return Tom Rogan’s money, somehow.  
Eddie Kaspbrak was worth more than a stupid bet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 2 chapters left, folks - one Eddie, and one Richie.
> 
> please come talk to me! I love hearing from you all :) leave me a comment, or visit at:  
> strictlyamess.tumblr.com (main)  
> skeletonscribbles.tumblr.com (writing)


	8. "Even Angels Fall" (Eddie)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Eddie Kaspbrak was throwing away his whole frigid image - his dreams of waiting to have a boyfriend until he was an undergrad at Sarah Lawrence - for the hot and cold experience that was Richie Tozier, and he was so fucking happy to be doing it, he could scream."

**EDDIE**   
**FEBRUARY 14th, 2000**   
**The night of the Winter Ball**

Eddie Kaspbrak had been in “like” a few times over the course of his high school career. None of those crushes had ever gone anywhere; in fact, most had fizzled out pretty quickly. (He found himself grateful, now, that his crush on Mike Hanlon had only lasted for a couple of days - if it had been any longer, he wasn’t sure if he could stand being friends with him now.)

Being in “like” with Richie Tozier was a totally different animal than any of the silly kid infatuations he’d had before.

For starters, the ‘having your feelings reciprocated’ piece was absolutely bonkers. Daydreaming about wanting to kiss somebody didn’t even hold a candle to wanting to kiss somebody and then being able to actually do it. The past couple of weeks had seen sort of a dam burst in Eddie; to the absolute shock of the student body of Padua, he’d firmly attached himself to Richie in a very public way after Richie’s Winter Ball proposal. It turned out that Eddie was pretty starved for affection. Sonia had kept him deprived for years and years.

And then, there was the fact that it was _Richie Tozier_ he was in “like” with...and that was maybe the most bonkers piece of the entire situation.

Richie Tozier wasn’t like any of the boys Eddie had liked before. Richie wasn’t like any of the other boys Eddie had ever _known_ before, really. Richie was a series of contradictions that Eddie was still in the process of unraveling. He was brusque and crude in front of his friends (well, _their_ friends, now - Eddie and Bev had effectively joined forces with Ben, Bill, Stan, Mike, and Richie over the course of the last month), but eloquent and sweet when he was alone with Eddie; he was closed off and unresponsive in class, but absolutely alight when in front of a good book, or telling Eddie about his favorite music. Eddie wasn’t sure which Richie was real - maybe they both were, public and private - but he liked them both. He liked the way he and Richie pushed at each other when Richie was in the mood to run his mouth, and he liked the way Richie whispered poetry in his ear before he left sultry, open-mouthed kisses down his neck. He liked it all.

Eddie Kaspbrak was throwing away his whole frigid image - his dreams of waiting to have a boyfriend until he was an undergrad at Sarah Lawrence - for the hot and cold experience that was Richie Tozier, and he was so fucking happy to be doing it, he could scream.

It had only been a month, but in “like” was starting to feel like...more than “like”.

There was a word for that. Eddie knew what it was - and he hadn’t said it out loud, but he was thinking that he might, at the dance, if the mood was right. He wanted Richie to hear it - he wanted to see the look on Richie’s face, wanted to trace through Richie’s freckles, maybe drum his fingers against Richie’s lips as he smiled, laughed, told Eddie he was an idiot for saying, thinking, feeling that word for Richie.

In Eddie’s dreams - in his wildest, strangest fantasies - Richie even said it back.

“What do people do at dances, anyway?” Eddie swung his lunchbox on to the table, mouth miles ahead of his brain. It was the day of the dance, and he was excited and scared and mostly irritated at all of the extra attention he and Richie were getting. (The Africa stunt had been lovely, except that it had attracted the attention of their entire grade. Eddie and RIchie had been on the receiving end of more rumors and bullying than they could keep track of, but it was worth it, Eddie thought, for what he had gained.)

“Dance,” Stan responded flatly, using his knife to make neat work of his orange peel.

Mike choked out a laugh. “That’s rich coming from you, sweetheart. When’s the last time you did anything other than scoff from the sidelines at a school dance?”

Stan shook his head, still focusing on his orange. “You and Bill can grind up on one another without me. I don’t want to get sweaty, and I don’t want to be any closer to the unwashed miscreants we go to school with than I absolutely have to.”

Ben dug around in his lunch bag. “Look. If one of the three of you finally admits to me that you’re all dating, you can have my Dunkaroos. I am that serious about wanting to know the truth about this.”

Richie bounded over from the lunch line, squeezing in close enough to Eddie that their thighs were pressed together. Eddie made a show of pretending to be upset by being jostled, but was actually quietly thrilled to have him there. He had missed him after English - the whispering was louder and more hurtful when Eddie was alone. “Who’re you giving your Dunkaroos to, Haystack? Me?”

“Not until you change your opinion about my beard,” Ben said, sipping sourly at his juice box. Bev giggled, watching Ben with a fond expression.

“Alas, I cannot tell a lie. Eat your goddamn Dunkaroos yourself, Benny, and try not to get crumbs in your stupid facial hair.” Richie turned his attention to Eddie. “What’s the word, sweetpea? How was math?”

“Pet names are demeaning and heteronormative,” Eddie said, taking carrots out of his lunch bag and sliding them towards Richie. “Eat something other than that disgusting school pizza, good lord.”

“Heteronormative?” Ben frowned, opening the aforementioned Dunkaroos.

“Better not to ask,” Bev said lightly, stealing a tiny cookie out of the Dunkaroos package and swiping it quickly through the provided frosting.

“Stan’s right though, Eddie,” Bill brought the conversation back to Eddie’s original question. “You’ll d-d-dance, you’ll laugh, you’ll meet duh-drunk girls in the bathroom.”

“It’s not a bad time,” Stan admitted. “Except you’ll be with Richie, so it probably will be.”

“Having never been to a dance with myself, I can’t technically argue with that.” Richie begrudgingly ate a carrot. “I’ve never been to a dance at all, actually. Eddie’s mom never asked, so I stayed home.”

“Beep fucking beep,” Eddie scowled, scooting away from Richie. “We’ll see if she even lets me out of the house tonight. I might have to climb out the window.”

Ever since Sonia had spied Eddie and Richie kissing almost a month ago, Eddie had been on near-constant lockdown. Having definitive proof of her son’s homosexuality didn’t make Sonia Kaspbrak weepy, like most everything else did - instead, it had made her angry in a way that Eddie had never seen her be angry before. It was equal parts exhilarating and awful.

“Or I’ll climb up your drainpipe, like Romeo,” Richie offered. “It is the east, and Eddie’s ass is the sun.”

“Please don’t ruin Shakespeare for me,” Ben groaned.

“Arise, fair sun, and walk away so that I might get a better view,” Richie continued, spurred on by Ben’s unhappiness.

For whatever reason, that was it for Eddie. His mind was made up - he was going to tell Richie at the dance.

Logically, he knew he should be nervous about that, but Richie was so...solid, so consistent, such a sure thing, already, that Eddie wasn’t scared at all.

“On that note,” Eddie said, picking up his bag, “I should get to class a little early. Bio quiz.” He gave Richie a meaningful look at that - they had spent most of Wednesday tucked away in the corner of the bookstore, “studying” for that quiz. “I’ll see you all tonight.”

Richie grabbed him before he stood up, and whispered in his ear. “Seven sharp, outside my place? Went’s letting me borrow the car.”

Eddie smiled - a secret smile, reserved for Richie and Richie alone. “Meet you there, ‘Chee.”

Richie’s cheeks colored. “Chee?”

“Chee,” Eddie cooed again, pushing his way up and away from the lunch table. "Happy Valentine's Day." He stopped before he exited the cafeteria, taking the time to blow one last, sweet kiss in Richie’s direction. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a flinty look in Tom Rogan’s eyes from the far corner of the cafeteria, but he didn’t care anymore. He was beyond ancient grudges now.

The evening couldn’t come soon enough.

\----

“You’re not going.”

Eddie sighed and smoothed out his baby blue suit jacket for the zillionth time, refusing to make eye contact with his mother.

“I’m eighteen, mama. You don’t get to tell me where I can or can’t go.”

“You live in my house,” Sonia hissed, working really hard to make herself seem large, “you live by my rules. You will not meet up with that vulgar, outrageous boy, especially not on _Valentine's Day_ , and you will not step foot in that high school gymnasium.”

“The weight of the world is love,” Eddie muttered to himself, staring determinedly at his shoes and debating making a break for one of the windows. “Under the burden of solitude, under the burden of dissatisfaction, the weight, the weight we carry is love--”

“What are you saying, Edward?” Sonia stuck her fingers under Eddie’s chin and tried to force him to look up. “Stop mumbling your nonsense and go back upstairs.”

“It’s a poem by Allen Ginsburg,” Eddie said, jerking his head to the side. “That _vulgar, outrageous boy_ showed it to me. I thought it was applicable.”

“Allen Ginsburg is a filthy homosexual,” said Sonia coldly, “and that perverted boy is trying to expose you to queer propaganda.”

“It’s not bad to be gay, mom!” Eddie felt something inside him snap when she called Richie perverted. She’d been trying to make him feel like he was sick since he was eight years old. He wasn’t sick. He was...he was feeling…

“It is a disease, same as your asthma,” Sonia said, clenching her teeth, “and if you’d only let me help with it, you wouldn’t--”

“My asthma was fake!” Eddie finally pulled his face up to meet his mother’s, wanting her to feel the extent of his anger. “I’m not sick! I’m not sick in any way! What about that don’t you understand? Why can’t you just let me be who I am?”

“If I let you be who you are, you’d be kissing men and flying off to New York in the fall to attend that horrible school you got into,” Sonia shrieked, control of the situation slipping, “and I can’t have that, Eddie-Bear, I can’t have my son--”

“What did you say?” Eddie felt his breath catch in his chest, and his hands flew to his pockets, searching for an inhaler that wasn’t there, wasn’t there, wasn’t there….

It took a moment for Sonia to realize her mistake, but once she did, her grotesque, bloated face turned white.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Edward.”

“Mom.” Eddie forced himself to breathe deep - in, out, in, out. “Did I get into Sarah Lawrence?”

“I threw the letter away,” Sonia snapped. “You’re not going to school with filthy New York liberals.”

Eddie didn’t respond. He was too angry to do anything but push his way past his mother, forcing his way out into the cold night air.

“You’re not--”

“Yes I am, mom,” Eddie choked out, impatient to get to the one person who he knew would make his world make sense again. “I am.”

\----

When Eddie jogged up to Richie’s house, a little late and out of breath, Richie was on the front porch, smoking. His face was scrunched up with what Eddie assumed was worry, his tux was navy blue and a little wrinkled, his hair hung in shaggy ringlets around his shoulders, and his glasses were askew.

He was the most beautiful damn thing Eddie had ever seen, and as soon as he looked over, Eddie promptly burst into tears.

“Oh, no.” Richie got up, hastily putting out his cigarette. “I won’t smoke, Spaghetti, I won’t smoke ever again, promise...please don’t cry.” He took two long steps towards Eddie, and Eddie met him in the middle, crashing into him almost ferociously and sobbing into his shoulder.

“Richie…”

“Do I look that bad?” Richie whispered softly, rubbing soothing circles below Eddie’s shoulder blades.

Eddie shoved at him without any real force, and sniffed hard. “No, dumbass. My mom.”

Eddie had given Richie bits and pieces of information about Sonia - not enough to expose her full insanity, but enough that Richie knew that things weren’t always great at home.

“Fuck her,” Richie said firmly, pulling him in a little tighter. “And not in the way that I’d usually suggest.”

Eddie cried silently for a few more seconds, letting himself be grounded by Richie’s presence.

“I wanted tonight to be perfect,” he finally said, voice rough. “And now there’s a wet spot on your shoulder.”

“Not my favorite kind of wet spot, to be sure, but...it’s fine. I don’t care. In fact, let’s start again,” Richie reassured him. “I’ve got car keys and two dance tickets in my pocket. Wanna use ‘em?”

“I wouldn’t hate it,” Eddie said slowly, feeling the corners of his mouth tug up a tiny, miniscule amount. “If you open my car door for me, though, I’ll fucking kill you.”

“There’s my Eddie Spaghetti,” Richie said fondly. “Remember the first time I drove you, when you spent the whole car ride torn between trying not to puke and glaring daggers at me?”

“No, I don’t,” Eddie said honestly. “Sounds like a good time, though.”

Richie’s laugh rang clear and loud through the neighborhood, and the sound made all of the Sonia shit seemed like a nightmare; a distant memory. “Rock and roll, Eds. Rock and roll.”

\----

“Eddie Kaspbrak, looking HOT!”

Eddie beamed over at an already sweaty Beverly Marsh, who was dragging Ben down the hallway at full force to examine Eddie’s suit more closely.

“You look beautiful too, Bev,” he said, happy and sincere. “Rad outfit choice - two pieces, very bold.”

“I almost passed out when I saw her,” Ben admitted proudly.

“Is that what that was?” Bev looked back at him, mischief in her eyes. “I thought you just tripped out the front door as we left.”

“Because you’re so beautiful,” Ben insisted.

“Hey, gang’s all here!” Mike, Stan, and Bill had exited the gymnasium and were also coming their way. Mike was jubilant in a classic black tux, Bill seemed a little dazed in his white suit and blue undershirt combo, and Stan was, as always, neat and beautiful in light gray. Mike was chattering excitedly. “I saw Ben and Bev sneak out the gym door and was gonna come out here and embarrass them by having all three of us walk in on them making out, but this is much better.”

Stan looked horrified. “You said we were going to get water.”

Mike shrugged amiably. “I did indeed. Hey, y’all wanna take a picture? You can have it to remember me by when Stan kills me in five minutes.” He pulled a yellow plastic disposable camera out of his pocket.

Bill eyed it with interest. “Is that a nuh-nuh-new one?”

Eddie let his attention slip from the inevitable argument about taking a picture and looked instead at Richie, who was eyeing the floor.

“You okay?” he murmured, tugging at Richie’s sleeve.

Richie jerked back into reality. He looked at Eddie apologetically, and smiled a small smile. “Yeah, ‘course. It’s like I said...I just haven’t been to one of these shindigs before.”

“Get in the picture, lovebirds!” Bev called, yanking on Eddie’s arm to drive home her demand.

Eddie forced down the niggling worry that had sprouted in his stomach and attempted to put on a smile.

“Thanks, Greta,” Mike said, taking his camera back from the girl who’d taken their picture.

“Sure.” Greta Bowie blew a bubble with her gum and popped it obnoxiously. The gum matched her dress in pinkness, and it was more than a little nauseating. “By the way, Marsh, Tom Rogan’s looking for you. Says he went to your house to pick you up to come here, but you’d already split by the time he got there.”

“Fuck.” Bev crossed her arms, annoyed. “I haven’t talked to him in almost a month. Why the fuck would his creepy ass think I was going to the dance with him?”

“He said something about a bet,” Greta continued boredly, smacking her gum continuously and making Eddie cringe, “and also, I think he was banking on fucking you tonight.”

Ben surged forward. “Where is he? I’ll fucking kill him.”

“A bet…?” Eddie asked softly, trying to put together the pieces. What the fuck was Rogan up to? Eddie had thought that he was trying to use Bev as a beard; a beautiful sort of masquerade, but if Tom was involved in a bet, there was probably something more sinister at play.

“Tell Tom Rogan to choke on thirteen dicks, Greta,” Richie said loudly and suddenly, pushing forward. “C’mon Eds. Let’s dance.”

“I don’t know how--” The protest died on Eddie’s lips as Richie dragged him along to the dance floor.

“None of these idiots do, Eds, but they’re all doing it anyway. Why can’t we?” With a final whoop, Richie began jumping wildly to the beat of Livin’ La Vida Loca, which was deafeningly loud over the speakers. Eddie watched him, dazed, with a laugh trapped somewhere in his chest and butterflies winging desperately in his stomach. In any other world, he would hate this. But in this one...

...he had to tell him, he wanted to say it now, now, now…

...and it was like the DJ had read Eddie’s mind, because when Ricky Martin died down, that shitty Aerosmith song about not missing a thing started to play.

“Richie?” he asked, grabbing Richie’s hand. Richie turned to look to him, a sweet smile on his face and sweat starting to bead against his hairline, and Eddie felt dizzy with emotion. “Dance with me?”

Richie laughed, short and low, and pulled Eddie in, wrapping his arms around his waist. “Like this?”

Eddie crept his arms up and around Richie’s neck. “I don’t know. I don’t know how to dance.”

“Me either,” Richie murmured, like it was a secret, “but this thing we’re doing is pretty nice, whatever it is.”

Eddie’s moment had come. His heart pounded in his ears.

“Richie...I…”

He didn’t get to finish his sentence, because Henry Bowers chose that moment to tear Richie backwards, grabbing him by the collar and yanking. Richie landed on the dance floor with a hard _thud._

“What the fuck is your problem, Tozier?” Tom Rogan was behind Henry, wearing a murderous expression. “Were you working for Hanscom on the side this whole time? How much money did you collect on this, huh?”

“Here.” Richie, still reeling, reached into his pocket and extracted a wad of cash. He tossed it in Tom’s direction. “Take it back. I want out.”

Ben pushed his way over from across the gymnasium, having noticed what was going on. “Ease off, Rogan, you disgusting piece of shit.”

“You think this is funny, Hanscom?” Tom turned on Ben. “You think it’s funny to humiliate me like this? She’s only fucking you because she’s too pathetic to fuck me--”

Ben let out a roar and lurched forward, swinging at Tom. Tom ducked and sucker punched Ben in the stomach, and Ben toppled to the floor.

“That’s right, bitch,” Tom leered, “really funny now, right? Well, just wait until Henry gets his hands on you. He’s been just dying to. Haven’t you, Henry?”

Henry smiled a terrifying smile.

“Jesus,” continued Tom, shaking his head. “Idiots, all of us. Did you know that I was paying Tozier to date Kaspbrak, too, Hanscom? He really fucking swindled us. Fuck.” He turned and kicked Richie in the ribs one more time for good measure. Richie curled into himself, and Eddie felt his heart drop into his stomach.

Richie had been paid to date him…?

“Tom,” called a female voice from within the crowd. “Tom?”

Tom whipped around. “Beverly?”

“Yep,” Bev said, popping the ‘p’ as she approached Tom, reared back...and punched him in the nose.

Time all but stopped. Students all around them had frozen and were staring in awe. Eddie was only half processing what was going on; he was still stuck on the fact that the entire last month of his life - arguably the best month of his life - had been a lie. Still, he tried to engage with the situation, for Bev’s sake.

“What the fuck was that for?!” Tom cried, clutching his face. “I was trying to book a modeling gig!”

“That was for hurting my boyfriend,” Bev said, stone cold, and kicked him in the stomach. “And that one was for bragging about how you were gonna fuck me tonight.”

Tom spluttered and opened his mouth weakly, but he was silenced by one last kick to the head.

“And that’s for Eddie Kaspbrak,” Richie said, dusting off his suit and moving to stand fully upright. “I can’t believe you tried to kiss him, you fucking slime. Talk about out of your league...no wonder you got rejected. Sore fucking loser.”

The entire gymnasium exploded in whispers. Everyone’s eyes were on Eddie.

That was the last straw. The piteous looks that his classmates were giving him were too much for him to handle, especially on top of his broken heart.

For the second time that night, he pushed his way out into the cold winter air, not bothering to look back.

“Eddie!” Richie was tailing him almost immediately. “Eds, hey. Let me explain.”

“What’s to explain, Richie?” Eddie didn’t turn around. “You were paid to date me by the one person I truly hate, and I fucking fell for it. If you were trying to hurt me, congratulations. You did.”

“That’s only part of it,” Richie tried, a serious edge to his voice.

“It shouldn’t have been any of it.” Richie reached out to touch Eddie on the shoulder, and Eddie recoiled from the touch immediately. “Fuck off, asshole. Good fucking bye.”

“You don’t have to go back to that house,” Richie said, and if Eddie didn’t know better, he would have said that Richie was desperate.

“I guess I do,” Eddie said coldly, still refusing to look at Richie. (If he looked, he’d be swept back in, he just knew it.) “Leave me alone.”

To both his relief and disappointment, Richie did. Eddie made the rest of the trek home alone and on foot, crying despondently.

Sonia was asleep in her armchair when he got home. Silently, he crept up the stairs and curled up in his bed, not bothering to take his suit off. It didn’t matter. Nothing fucking mattered.

Eddie wasn’t in “like” with Richie Tozier. Eddie was in love, and somehow, that was the worst part of this whole thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the shit! hath hitteth! the fan!
> 
> please come make my day in the comments or at:  
> strictlyamess.tumblr.com (main)  
> or  
> skeletonscribbles.tumblr.com (writing)


	9. "Cruel To Be Kind" (Richie)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Enough, all of you.” Mr. King slumped back in his desk chair. “I don’t know all the details of your unnecessarily complicated love lives, and I don’t care to. I’m here to grade your sonnets. That’s all.” He turned back to Eddie. “Are you ready, Mr. Kaspbrak?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the poetry moment you've all been waiting for

**RICHIE**  
**MARCH 1ST, 2000**  
**Two weeks and one day after the Winter Ball**

If Richie hadn’t remembered why he’d stayed away from feelings before, he was certainly clear on it now.

All of the good things that were happening in his life had disappeared in a single breath two weeks ago. Tom Rogan’s breath, to be precise. He’d meant to track Tom down during the dance and return the money, but Tom had been too quick; too angry.

Now, Richie was alone again.

Well, not totally alone. Stan, Bill, Mike, Ben, and Bev were all trying their best to split their time evenly between him and Eddie...but they weren’t very good at it. Ben and Bev were off by themselves half the time, revelling in their new relationship - and Richie understood that, certainly. They were sweet together, in a nauseatingly heterosexual sort of way. They tried to keep it under wraps around Richie, but were too starry-eyed to stay away from each other for very long. It hurt to watch sometimes, but Richie could manage, was managing.

Stan, Bill, and Mike were more consistent and less sappy, which Richie liked. Still, even they were busy more often than not. The number of Stan’s AV club meetings seemed to increase exponentially, Mike was caught up with spring track and field, and Bill’s work was making regular appearances in the student literature magazine. Richie wasn’t stupid; he knew that half of the time they claimed they were going to their extracurriculars, they were actually meeting up with Eddie, who they assumed needed them more...but that was okay, too. He was dealing with that just fine.

He couldn’t figure out how to interact with Eddie. That was the part that he was absolutely, one hundred percent not dealing well with at all, and he didn’t know how to make his heart shut up about it. He could barely look at him, in fact - every time he got even a glimpse of fanny pack or big brown eyes, some sort of flight response kicked in and before he knew it, he was bolting down the hallway in the opposite direction. Heartbreak was so much worse than he’d imagined it would be, and he was fucking tired of it. He should have known better than to fall in love. He was less of a chump than this, wasn’t he?

“You’re smarter than this,” Stan said, and the sheer coincidence of the statement jolted Richie out of his thoughts and back into his early morning conversation with Bill, Stan, Mike, and Ben.

“Stanley Hanukkah Uris, was that a compliment?” Richie clutched his chest and pretended to faint. “Oh, my stars! I’m swooning!”

“There are so many things wrong with what you just said, I’m having difficulty remembering why I’m still speaking to you,” Stan grumbled, rolling his eyes. “You’re one absence away from losing credit for English, dipshit. You can’t lose credit for English if you want to graduate.”

Richie shrugged, thinking of mornings spent staring at the back of Eddie’s perfectly coiffed head and feeling a little bit like he’d been punched in the gut. “I mean, I have an ‘A’. I know the stuff. What does King need me around for?”

“King doesn’t give a shit,” Stan said, “but the school does. You have to go today.”

“Fuck.” Richie shoved his hands in his jacket pockets despondently. “I’d rather blow Henry Bowers behind the crew shed.”

“That’s just not true,” Mike pointed out mildly.

“Whatever.” Richie rolled his eyes and looked down.

Ben put his hand on Richie’s shoulder. “Just put your head down and get by. It’ll get easier.”

“Easy for you to say, lover boy,” Richie said, meaner than he meant to. “You and Bev set a date for the wedding yet?”

“Shut up, Richie,” Ben said without any real heat, “and go to English.”

“It’s sonnet day,” Stan added.

Bill’s face lit up. “Suh-sonnet day??”

“Incredibly,” Richie said, putting on his old trusty British accent as a way of keeping himself contained, “you’ve managed to actually make this worse for me, old chap.”

Stan shrugged. “It’s King’s assignment, not mine.”

“It could be fun,” Ben said, attempting a helpful smile but coming up with more of a grimace. “Tom Rogan’s poem will be a hot mess, anyway.”

Richie stared at Ben, trying to figure out exactly where he was getting off on mentioning Tom Rogan in front of him. “Benny babe. What the fuck.”

“Well, he's gonna be there.” Ben threw up his hands as the bell went off behind him. “Eddie’s gonna be there. We’re all gonna be there. Suck it up or fail.”

Richie raised his eyebrows, surprised at Ben’s frankness. “Balls to the wall today, Haystack, huh? All right.” He pulled his backpack straps higher on his shoulders. “Well, here goes nuttin’.”

The rest of the boys looked at each other, seemingly waiting for something.

Richie pushed his glasses up and looked back at them, wondering if there was something he’d missed. “Fellas? What’s the hold-up?”

“You’re not gonna make a joke about ‘nuttin’?” asked Mike cautiously.

Richie fell to the ground in exaggerated dismay. "I can't fucking believe....I didn't even think......"

“We’ve lost him,” Stan said, ignoring Richie’s thrashing and heading towards the building. “At last. Let’s escape before he comes back to his senses.”

“Nonsense, old sport,” Richie called out, pushing himself up and into his best Jay Gatsby impression, “you’ll never be rid of me.”

“What a stupid curse,” Stan said, monotone as ever as he marched on.

Richie took a deep breath, smiled, and followed him in. “A blessing, Staniel. A blessing.”

\----

“As you know, you’ll be presenting your sonnets today.” Mr. King looked around the classroom, eyes weary and preemptively annoyed. “My expectations are….” and he looked directly at Tom Rogan, “...low.”

Richie would have snorted if he weren’t dedicated to pretending that he was invisible. As it stood, Richie was learning very quickly that it was entirely against his nature to be invisible. He bounced his leg restlessly, watching the clock tick, tick, tick…

“So I thought I’d offer the opportunity for you to volunteer before I begin picking you off, one by one.” Mr. King concluded, steepling his fingers. “Anyone?”

The class was still for a moment, and then a single hand raised into the air.

Mr. King sighed deeply. “All right. Let’s get this over with, Kaspbrak.”

“Fuck,” Tom Rogan muttered from his seat in the second row, not even bothering to be discreet.

“Please be silent, Mr. Rogan,” Mr. King said, “Mr. Kaspbrak has suffered quite enough at your hands, I think.”

Well, shit. If the good news had traveled all the way to Mr. King, then every single person in the universe must know. Richie hoped quietly that people were being nicer to Eddie now that they knew how much shit he’d gone through.

“Tozier should go,” Rogan protested as Eddie took his place at the class podium. “If he’s been out working on this sonnet or whatever for the last zillion classes, his should be pretty good, right?”

Richie kissed his middle finger and waved it out at Tom.

“Enough, all of you.” Mr. King slumped back in his desk chair. “I don’t know all the details of your unnecessarily complicated love lives, and I don’t care to. I’m here to grade your sonnets. That’s all.” He turned back to Eddie. “Are you ready, Mr. Kaspbrak?”

“Sure,” Eddie mumbled, uncharacteristically shy.

Richie forced himself to look up at Eddie, and once his eyes were properly focused, his heart immediately shot up to his throat. Eddie looked...tired. His hair, pink polo shirt, 80’s style high socks, and tiny red shorts were the same as they ever were, but there was a sort of melancholy about him that Richie knew for a fact hadn’t been there before.

That was his fault. Eddie was sad, and it was his fault.

Christ.

Eddie took a deep breath, and began.

“I hate your stupid wandering hands,” he said, “and the way you’ve grown your hair.”

Richie’s heart, which was still in his throat, all but stopped beating.

“I hate your filthy cigarettes,” Eddie continued, “I hate it when you stare.”

The entire class was looking at Richie, now. He sank down into his chair. So much for being invisible.

“I hate your grungy music taste, and the way you read my mind,” Eddie read, on a roll now. “I hate your jokes about your dick; you’re crude but also kind.”

Part of Richie’s brain lit up at Eddie’s mention of his dick, but he pushed the thought down in favor of continuing to listen. Apparently, Mr. King was choosing to overlook it, too.

“I hate your stupid fashion sense; it makes me want to die. I hate it when you make me laugh….even worse when you make me cry.”

Eddie’s voice was starting to wobble, and Richie felt his own throat start to close. Holy shit.

“I’m sorry I didn’t talk to you, I messed up at Winter Ball,” Eddie managed, winding down, “‘cause mostly I hate the way I don’t hate you - not even close, not even a little bit, not even at all.”

He looked at Richie, finally, and the eye contact was almost too much. In fact, it was probably the most intense moment of Richie’s life to date. Eddie’s eyes were full of tears, and embarrassment, and something else, something huge - and it wasn’t hope, no, but that was exactly how it was making Richie feel. Hopeful.

Eddie broke first and pushed out of the classroom, covering his face in mortification. Richie understood. It wasn’t about him. Eddie had a tough bitch reputation to uphold, after all.

Richie stayed sitting for a moment, dazed and lost in the swirl of his mind. The class was buzzing around him - Tom Rogan was glaring daggers in his direction, and even Mr. King seemed affected.

Stan, ever practical, was the first one to actually do anything legitimate about the situation. He turned and kicked Richie’s desk as hard as he could, which almost sent Richie tumbling backwards. (He had a nasty habit of leaning his desk chair back.)

“Go. Find. Him. You. _Moron_ ,” Stan hissed, pointing to the door.

Richie looked up at Mr. King. “Would that count as an absence?”

Mr. King looked back, a rare smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. “It’s for class purposes. I’ll excuse it.”

Richie didn’t need to be told twice. He was out the door like a shot.

Eddie hadn’t gotten far. Richie caught up to him in the parking lot, and pursued him after a quick moment of watching him walk away in his obscenely small red shorts. “Eds!”

Eddie froze.

“You’ll lose credit for English,” Eddie called back, not turning around.

“I’ve been excused,” Richie said. “King’s a softie when it comes to love.”

Eddie did turn, then, looking for all intents and purposes like a deer in the headlights. “Love?”

“Listen, Spaghetti.” Richie finally approached Eddie, fidgeting with the hem of his Alice In Chains t-shirt. “I took money from Tom Rogan, yeah, okay, but only because I knew that would motivate me up off my ass to go talk to you. I’d never have had the balls otherwise.”

Eddie looked down at Richie’s shoes. “Rich, you don’t have to...I mean, it’s okay if it’s about the money, I guess. I get it. I’m not--”

“It’s not,” Richie insisted. “I thought it was, at the beginning, but I was wrong. It was always about you.”

The resulting silence was deafening. Richie really wanted to break it, but he sucked it up and choked back all of the idiot phrases that were threatening to come out of his mouth.

“I want to believe you,” Eddie finally murmured, eyes still fixed on the pavement.

Richie reached for him, sliding his hands deftly along Eddie’s face so that he was holding Eddie’s jaw. “Then believe me,” he whispered, taking a second to marvel at his own bravery before leaning in and catching Eddie’s lips. He kissed hard and slow, trying to pour all of the things he’d been feeling over the past few months into it - the fascination, the longing, the hurt...and the love.

Eddie got the message. He kissed back with equal ferocity, and Richie felt his heart do an overwhelmed little somersault.

“I think I knew,” he said, pulling back just far enough that he was murmuring against the crease of Eddie’s lips, “that I was going to fall for you if I went through with that idiot Rogan’s plan. I think I knew that, and I did it anyway.”

“My Hemingway rants in English class really did it for you, huh,” Eddie breathed, laughing softly against Richie’s mouth.

“Nothing gets my dick harder than feminism,” Richie confirmed, moving his hands from Eddie’s face to the small of Eddie’s back and rubbing small circles there.

“Shut up, shut up, shut all the way up,” Eddie groaned, kissing him again. To Richie’s delight, it was obvious that Eddie had been just as starved for Richie over the past few weeks as Richie was for him; he was all but melting into Richie’s touch as Richie snuck his hand up the back of Eddie’s pink polo.

“In the - hnnn, not in the parking lot, Richie,” Eddie managed between kisses, doing nothing to stop Richie from continuing to slide his hands up and down Eddie’s bare back (and maybe dip into his shorts a little bit) in spite of his protests.

“What happened to ‘Chee?” Richie asked, the excitement in his chest bubbling up in the form of laughter and bad jokes.

“Chee,” Eddie smiled, drawing back all the way to look at Richie fully. Richie blanched - he hadn’t really gotten to look at Eddie in the sunlight, yet, and not only was he obviously fatigued, but it looked like he’d lost a little weight.

"Hold up," Richie said softly. “Eddie, have you been eating?”

Eddie crossed his arms, embarrassed. “Well, I’ve been sad, obviously, but if I look like shit, it’s because I haven’t been home in about a week. I moved in with Bev and her aunt.”

Fuck. “Sonia?”

“Yeah.” Eddie nodded, seeming surprisingly zen about the situation. “I sent in the deposit to Sarah Lawrence and told her I was in love with you, and she threatened to kick me out...so I kicked myself out before she could.”

Richie choked on air. “You’re gonna actually get to be in New York?”

“Really?” Eddie put his hands on his hips and arched an eyebrow, unimpressed. “I tell you I love you, I tell you that I’ve escaped my psychopathic mother, and that’s the detail you focus on, really…”

“I haven’t made one single mom joke today,” Richie protested, “seriously. I even passed up on a ‘nut’ joke earlier. I can't control my idiot brain all the time. Give a guy a break.”

“But yes,” continued Eddie, a small smile playing his lips. “I’m going.” He looked fleetingly - guiltily - at Richie. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.”

Elation burst in Richie's chest like fireworks. 

“It's okay! You’re telling me right now,” Richie said, a giant grin stretching over his face, “and I’m telling _you_ that I’m in at NYU.”

Eddie’s whole face lit up. “You mean--?”

“No long distance for us, Spaghetti,” Richie confirmed, grabbing Eddie, picking him up, and trying (and failing) to spin him around. “We’re university boyfriends, now.”

“An hour ago, we weren’t even speaking,” Eddie reminded him, smiling in spite of himself.

“And three months ago, you would have murdered me on sight,” Richie laughed, pulling him close. “Sit by my side, and let the world slip: we shall ne’er be younger.”

“Spend less time with Ben,” Eddie advised, wriggling out of Richie’s grasp and holding out his hand. “It’s about lunch time, speaking of. You ready?”

Richie looked at Padua, less daunting now than ever before, looked back at Eddie, and felt...free.

He took Eddie’s hand. “Ready, Spaghetti. Let’s go be high schoolers in love.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Epilogue:
> 
> Stan: Ben…..
> 
> Ben: ……..
> 
> Stan: Bill, Mike and I….
> 
> Ben: …..?!?
> 
> Stan: We’re dating.
> 
> Ben: oh for fuCK’S SAKE
> 
> thank you all so so much for being so kind about this fic. I've loved every single second of writing it, and I'm so proud and glad to have shared it with you.
> 
> as always, come talk to me about my beloved Losers in the comments, or at:  
> strictlyamess.tumblr.com (main)  
> skeletonscribbles.tumblr.com (writing)


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